I'm early. Too early actually.

I park my car in the spacious driveway of the equally spacious residence called Pemberley in one of the upscale Los Angeles districts where I have my appointment. My brother's car is nowhere to be seen, so James is not here yet. We are scheduled to meet some Hollywood people here. Bigger names than ours. A lot bigger, James had said. They are interested in our work and would like to do some brainstorming with us.

I ring the doorbell. I don't know what to expect. James had said it would be an informal meeting, more like friends meeting friends. But I'm surprised when a woman in her late 50s opens the door, asking me my name and admitting me to the entrance hall, eventually. Her name is Mrs Reynolds. She smiles motherly at me and ushers me forth into a huge and comfy living room, easily able to hold 8-10 people comfortably, which gives way into an open kitchen area that she now turns to. Over her shoulder she tells me that the boys would be running a little late due to heavy traffic and that I should just make myself at home.

Okay, looks like this will be a truly informal meeting. With the boys? I shake my head and smirk, wondering what kind of Hollywood big wigs James has picked up as acquaintances who like to hold informal business meetings at home while Mom is cooking for them.

Really strange. But I kinda like it.

Mrs Reynolds gets a call on her cell and tells me she needs to fetch something and it will be only a short while and if I would mind staying alone for a few minutes? I raise my eyebrows. I find this odd that she would leave a stranger alone in her house but I shrug and say I wouldn't mind. After being reassured before she leaves that this is okay, I follow up on Mrs Reynolds' offer and give myself a tour of this floor of the house. Behind the large living room are several other rooms, loosely connected and adjacent to one another. The most impressive one something that looks like an entertainment room with an exceptionally large LED TV, all possibly existing types of games consoles, DVDs and Blueray players and what not – all state of the art as it seems. Many shelves with hundreds of movies and TV show DVDs. And a billiard table. Everything in front of huge windows that flood the room with broad daylight.

Everything in this house is big, huge, lacking nothing… And yet everything looks lived in, warm, tasteful but laid-back. Like home. Only on a bigger scale. I cannot imagine that only 3-4 people live in this house. This thing could swallow half a dozen people without each of them ever running into one another. Or so it seems.

Further down a small hall comes an office, its door wide open. There are more doors which I don't care to inspect. I feel weird enough wandering around in this house alone as it is.

When I take a short peek through the open door of the office, I'm surprised to see a woman standing there. Obviously I'm not as alone as I thought. Or as Mrs Reynolds made me believe.

The woman is leaning heavily on the backrest of a chair at the desk. It's immediately obvious that she is deeply distressed, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her lips quivering as if she is on the verge of crying hard.

What really captures my attention is not her enticing beauty with her interesting face, her full, warm chestnut hair flowing around her shoulders, her petite frame that shows shapely legs and arms and an overall appealing body – but her appearance of utter devastation and grave loneliness that she radiates like a beacon. It seems to fill the room and swallow the light from the windows, along with the notorious Californian warmth.

I hesitate. Now, what? Well... keep it simple.

"Hey, are you okay?"

She looks up to me slowly, defenseless, through watery eyes. It seems as if she is not surprised in the least that a stranger is standing in her office door in her home asking her if she is okay.

"No, I'm not." She says that quite matter-of-factly, as if she's used to feel this way. A sad smile. "But thanks for asking."

I'm sure I look dumbfounded or confused or both and honestly I am.

"Uh.. can I help you in any way? Get you anything? Or anyone?"

I don't know why but my enquiry seems to make her even sadder and the tears now stream down her face. Her voice gets hushed.

"No, nothing and no one you could get… anywhere."

I nod as in understanding what she means but I'm clueless as hell. Abysmal sadness emanates from her and, in contrast to her words, seems to scream at me for help at the top of her silent lungs. Like she's drowning but no one's there to keep her head above water.

I stand rooted to the spot. I cannot help. I don't know who she is. Or why she cries, for that matter. I don't know what to do. But looking at her I know for certain that I just cannot let her drown. So I opt for the first thing that pops into my mind.

"Need a hug?"

Don't know where that came from. It's not that I tend to hug strangers on a daily basis. Not even sad ones. Or pretty ones like her.

She looks at me as if she sees me for the first time within the few moments we know each other and eventually, the ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.

"Yeah… Yes… I think I could really do with a hug. Badly so, even."

This time I nod in agreement and slowly close the short distance between us. Hesitantly, my arms envelope her into an embrace that I expect to be awkward, given the situation. Instead, she melts into my body. Perfectly. Warmly. Homelike. It just feels right. And to my confusion, I'm not surprised.

And just when I think she would start to relax in my arms, she starts to cry in earnest. Silent sobs shake her. Violently. I feel the stream of her tears drenching my shirt. She holds on to me for dear life, her hands clutching my shirt into her fists at my back.

All I can do is hold her. Hold her above water and not let her go. My arms tighten around her, effectively telling her that she is safe. At least at this moment. Here. With me.

I don't know how much time passes until her sobbing ceases. She finally calms down and her breathing slows, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Eventually she relaxes in my embrace but doesn't break it.

"Your shirt is wet. Sorry." She mutters. I smile softly.

"Don't mind, really. It'll dry... Better now?"

She leans back to look at my face, yet her arms still keep their hold of me at my waist. She returns my smile and I swear the sun floods the room with light and warmth again when she does so. I feel rewarded. And content.

"Yes." She nods, relieved. "Yes, much better. "

Her eyes hold my gaze with intense openness and for some reason only now do I realize that they are of a mouth-watering, deep, rich chocolate colour. With flecks of gold.

I love chocolate.

"What's your name?"

"Lizzy."

That name has a nice ring to it. It fits her.

"Hi, Lizzy. I'm Will."

A/N: Honestly, I have no idea what this is. It's not a one-shot, but it's not a story, either (yet). I have quite a bit of background story flying around in my head for the characters and the environment this is supposed to take place in, including a role reversal and some non-canon stuff. It would involve the names and personalities of the 2001 trilogy of The Lord Of The Rings cast and production crew as a backdrop in the Hollywood industry (without me knowing anything about them, really).

Interesting or confusing? Do or don't?

Gah, I always swore myself never to write two stories simultaniously. Please, relieve me of this decision :-)