I've abandoned the Seven Dragons story (I read the first chapter the other day and it bored me) so I'm starting something completely new. I've asked a couple of questions for the story already. The 'no plot' thread was to do with this, and the 'believable superpower' one was too. So. This might not look fantasy yet, but I swear to you it is. This is all I have so far and I just want to know if you'd read on? Is it gripping enough for an opener? And also, is it just rubbish? Thank you in advance. (Oh and, um, this is not in the least bit autobiographical.) ---- Chapter One Ambrose leaned over the side of the bath, grabbed the little bottle of hotel bubble bath he’d dropped on the carpet, and read the back of it. Organic extra virgin olive oil. Shea butter. Juniperberry oil. Titanium dioxide. Okay, so he didn’t know what the last one was, but he was certain that it couldn’t be anything bad. The hotel was far too expensive to have supplied him with sub-par bubble bath. He dumped the bottle onto the carpet again and lay back with a sigh. One of the lights beside the mirror was flickering. Only a little but it was distracting. Every now and then, a flicker. He glared at it. “Mercer?” he called. Nothing. Huffing, he sat up, causing the bath water to slosh over the side. “Mercer!” he barked. He grumbled to himself, got to his feet, and clambered out of the bath. Soapsuds slid down his thighs. Ambrose removed the glass shade and fiddled with the bulb as water dripped from his elbows. The shock happened so fast he didn’t even cry out. *** Man found dead at Abbey House hotel named as... Jenn sighed and read through the news article, frowning to herself at the graphic descriptions of the deceased. She reached for the cup of tea sitting beside her keyboard and took a sip, pulling a face at how cold it was. Bored, she clicked on the video at the side of her browser and watched a clip of a dog on a skateboard. The video had fifteen million views. Fifteen million. Some people had nothing better to do with themselves. She pushed her chair back and got to her feet, taking her cup out into the kitchen and leaving it in the sink to deal with later, before returning to her desk again. Life, she thought, was incredibly dull. She stared at the screen, told herself to get on with it, then closed the browser down, knowing that the internet only distracted her. Opening a blank document, she watched as the cursor blinked. Write something, she told herself. Anything. She flexed her fingers and typed: Lucy Jackson kept men in her basement. Jenn smiled, pleased with her sentence. She read it again and then started to write, the words flowing across the screen. A half-page later and she was on the internet again, researching, she told herself. All writers researched. She tapped a name into the search engine and pressed enter. Ambrose Lawson. Jenn sighed as she gazed at the pictures that came up. Ambrose Lawson, actor, ex-pop star. The most beautiful man that ever lived. He was tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed with pale skin and lips like rose petals. There were pictures of him laughing and smiling and pictures of him looking sultry and serious. God, she wanted his babies. She grinned to herself, knowing that she was acting like a love-struck teenager. She read his profile on the actor's database. Again. He could play the piano, speak French and Italian, sing, dance... She'd watched interviews with him and wondered how he could be so handsome and so funny and so intelligent. She hated him. But she loved him more. There has to be something wrong with him. No man was that perfect. He probably hated babies or kicked puppies. She wondered if he was gay but realised that didn't make him any less perfect. Just less... obtainable. Not that she had a chance anyway. She was a wannabe nobody writer and he was Ambrose Lawson. Besides, she was ugly. Well, not beautiful. Her ears were too big and her lips were too small. She looked like a mouse. "Mice are cute," she said, enlarging one of the pictures and setting it as her desktop background. "And furry..." She closed the windows, saved her work and admired Ambrose Lawson smiling back at her, his eyes so dark they were almost black. She turned the computer off and went to sit on the sofa, picking up the book she had left on the arm and finding her folded corner. I should write to him. She shook her head and tried to concentrate on the book. I should write a script for him. "Be quiet," she told herself. She read the same sentence four times before she gave up and put the book down. Instead, she leaned forwards to grab the remote from the coffee table and switched the TV on. "...multiple knife wounds," the female newsreader said, looking grim and serious behind her empty desk. "The body was discovered by staff-" Jenn changed the channel and curled her legs up onto the sofa. She flicked through the shopping channels, stopping briefly when she spotted a silver bangle she liked the look of, before moving on again when she saw the price. She settled on a documentary about beached whales and watched it with a vague interest. She could write about whales. A horror story about whales beaching themselves for some unknown sinister reason. Maybe that would work better than the Lucy Jackson story. She tapped her chin with the remote, then changed the channel again. Tomorrow, she thought, I'll write to him. * * * Tomorrow came far too quickly. Jenn woke up before the alarm and turned it off before it could start. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom, wishing that it was Sunday again and that she didn't have to go to work. Or, more accurately, that she didn't have to go to work at the hotel. I need a new job, she thought, brushing her teeth. Once she'd finished in the bathroom, she went back into her bedroom, putting on her work uniform and wishing that the blue tabard at least fitted properly. It was too big and too shapeless and made her look like a sack of potatoes. Her marigolds were in the front pocket and she knew she'd probably get moaned at for forgetting to put them back in the box before leaving. She didn't care. Let them moan. When she was a famous author she wouldn't have to put up with such pettiness. She grinned to herself as she went downstairs, turning the radio on so that she had something to listen to while she ate her breakfast. "...Abbey House hotel murder victim..." Jenn groaned. They were still talking about that? She didn't like hearing about murders in hotels, especially as she worked in one. She had visions of going in to clean one of the bathrooms and finding someone hanging from the shower rail. That would make a good story though. She put her bowl in the sink next to her mug from the night before and told herself that she would definitely wash up when she got home. Well, maybe not as soon as she got home. Probably in the evening after she'd had her tea and had more than a bowl and a mug to wash. It was more environmentally friendly that way anyway. Jenn walked to work. Sometimes she wished she worked farther away so that she had a reason to drive and therefore a valid excuse not to turn up if her car broke down or if it snowed. Last winter, she was the only housekeeper who had made it in and she'd had to clean all twenty rooms on her own. She walked through the carpark, noticing the large handprint on the glass pane of the front door before she even got there. Why people couldn't use the handle was beyond her.