I’m getting a very weird feeling. I consider
turning around and leaving, but getting a cab on a cold rainy night before 2AM
is going to be tough as they don’t begin frequenting the area until the bars
start to close, and the nearest Uber appears to be 25 minutes away. Plus, I did
go to all of this trouble to get my lazy self dressed and over here.
There is a crest engraved in brass metal on the
front of the red door, an intricately designed crown and some lettering. I tilt
my head to read it all the way around. ‘Alea iacta est memores acti prudentes
uturi modus operandi’ I read aloud, and below, ‘Posteriori’. I recognize the
language as Latin from the three weeks we spent on it during Intro to
Languages, which was designed to help us choose one to focus on during our
tenure at the university
…
Against my better judgment, I push on the heavy
door, which creaks open. I enter into a cold stone-walled hall with a stone
slab floor, lit by what appears to be a row of fire lanterns on each side. I
guess this place is a bit behind the times in converting, or maybe they think
it’s super ironic and hipster to not jump on the modernization bandwagon. Or
maybe it’s me. I’m not exactly the authority on architectural trends. Maybe
converted vintage is over and re-vintaged vintage is back in. Ugh, I can’t wait
until I’m old and have an excuse not to be hip.
I walk down a windy stone hallway that seems
straight out of a period film. Wow, they are really taking this theme
seriously. How cool would it be if this stuff was authentic? I take a few
pictures with my phone just in case. I mean as Cultures Editor, it’s always
nice to be the one to discover the next big thing, like Connor said.
As I round the corner I hear, before I see, a
British male mumbling to himself, apparently in debate.
“It’s so bizarre. But it couldn’t be. Could it?
Stranger things have happened.”
I find myself face to face with a short-ish man,
though taller than me, with glasses, wearing a sports coat with suede elbow
patches. I scream in surprise and jump about five feet in the air. He seems
slightly taken aback as well but less jumpy than me, or at least less vocal
about it. He’s good looking in an intellectual sort of way and his dark floppy
hair is conservatively combed back. I’m not sure if he’s startled by our
unexpected encounter or my scream, but he does a bit of a double back.
“Sorry,” he recovers charmingly, “I didn’t see you
there.”
“No, me either.” I try to breathe. I feel like I
know him from somewhere.”
“Stuart Stephens.” He proffers his hand in
greeting.
“Olivia Grace Thorpland.” I shake his in return.
“But you can call me Gigi.”
“Hello, Gigi. Nice to meet you.” He is impeccably
mannered even after our near death collision. Must be the British thing.
“So are you here for the party too?” I inquire. “Do
you know where it is?”
“Party?” he asks, confused. “No, I just had a
meeting here.”
“Ah, I see,” I say, although I don’t, given the
hour. I definitely know him from somewhere. Got it, he’s a comedian.
“Well, care to join me anyway?” I offer politely.
After all, he’s British, I’m being a good ambassador. He appears a bit
bewildered.
“No, thanks. I best be going.”
“Are you sure? My friends are in there.”
“Really? Your friends are in there?” He seems
surprised to see where I’m gesturing.
“Yup,” I tell him confidently.
“Oh, well, thanks for the invite, but I’m
completely sure. Thanks anyway,” comes his nervous reply. “But, can I ask you a
question?” I nod. “Is this all, um, kosher?”
“I, I, don’t know.” I hesitate. Is he Jewish and
British? Is that a thing?
“Well, I’ll let you get on “he says. “Have a good
night.”
“You too. Bye,” I reply. And with that, we walk off
in opposite directions.
Finally, I reach a semi-circled entryway that has
the option of five doors, one straight ahead and two on either side. These are
not your ordinary doors either. They are heavy, arched, rustic, dark brown,
slated wooden doors. I’m not really in the mood to crash a wedding reception,
murder, or worse, a live band performance; and, given that anything could be
behind these doorways, I’m about to give up on this expedition completely, when
one of the doors, the entryway smack dab in the center, starts to creak open,
apparently of its own accord. A feeling of unexpected dread overtakes me. I
brace myself, unsure of what to expect to find behind it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BLURB:
Olivia can’t take it anymore. She’s had enough of the big city and it’s
lack of fulfilling her dreams. Then, just when she’s about to give up and move
home, out of the blue, she is offered her dream job. Olivia is suspicious but
that could just be the New York in her. She decides not to pull at threads.
Despite her best efforts to remain blissfully oblivious, the secret to her life
upgrade is soon uncovered when she finds herself invited to be part of a secret
society.
Olivia
learns that there is a thin curtain separating our world from theirs. Just
beneath the surface, an entirely different one exists. One that is controlled
by those of Royal lineage. The chosen ones, the Royals, hold the fate of the
world in their hands. Will Olivia be able to bear the weight of the crown?
Confessions
of a Shopaholic meets The Adjustment Bureau, this contemporary fairytale is
both relatable and aspirational. Taking a look at the current balance of media
and power with a healthy dose of humor, fashion, food and wanderlust.
BUY LINKS
Amazon:
https://amzn.to/2HxD1uZ
iBooks:
https://apple.co/2w0APXd
AUTHOR Bio and
Links:
An
international upbringing and a love of stories laid the foundation for
wanderlust. Shalini aspires to spend her time country-hopping and consuming
pop-culture, comedy and good food but the reality is often frantically downing
coffee, meeting deadlines at exactly the last second and working her
unglamorous corporate job to fund all of the other pursuits.
The Secret Lives of Royals is Shalini’s debut novel.
Her other work includes published poetry and scripts only she has read.
SOCIAL MEDIA AND WEBSITE
LINKS
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/ShaliniDua126
Website:
http://www.shalinidua.com/books
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