My Book

by Alam, Donna

  Good for him, if that’s what it is, I decide.

  With a smile, I reach for my phone on the nightstand, a habit I should be broken of at this point in my life. But being out of contact means I lose business, and losing business means a loss of money, and that just doesn’t interest me. But I suppose if I hadn’t been in possession of my phone last night, I wouldn’t have spent an hour talking an Icelandic conceptual artist down from the ledge, and then possibly I wouldn’t have arrived home in need of a distraction. Honestly, this business is a little like herding cats or psychoanalysing high-strung toddlers, at least when it comes to dealing with artists. God save me from artistic temperaments. And may he never save me from women in Batman underwear.

  Spending a week dog sitting definitely does have its—

  Fuck, the dog!

  I look at the time—it’s just gone five.

  I’m not sure a dutiful son would abandon his charge in favour of a fuck, but I’m sure Dad would understand, even if Rufus won’t. The decrepit thing sleeps through the night, but like an old man with prostate problems, he’s up at the arse crack of dawn. He’ll need feeding and his morning medication, so I slide out from under sleeping Bat Girl and grab my pants from where I’d abandoned them on the floor. When she turns onto her back, her arms raised over her head, she looks like the blonde version of Modigliani’s Sleeping Nude.

  With less pubic hair.

  Ten minutes, I decide. A quick sniff around the garden, his meds and his breakfast, and I’ll be back into bed before she’s even realised I’ve gone.

  Because a view like that needs appreciating. I’m not an artist. I can’t paint or sculpt her likeness. But I can sure as hell show this beauty some devotion.

  6

  Miranda

  ‘I haven’t moved in, Heather. It’s just a job, and a part-time one at that, on top of my regular full-time one.’ And somewhere to stay where I feel like I’m not in the middle of the War of the Roses, take II.

  I look down at my desk, my keyboard clear of both dust and crumbs, papers in neat stacks, books with their spines facing out. Pens and pencils neatly deposited to my For Fox Sake cup, and a pump dispenser of strawberry hand sanitiser standing next to it. Work is my little oasis of calm and control. The one place I can define outside the chaos of my everyday existence.

  ‘Cat-sitting is hardly working, Mir.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ I reply, examining my pale painted nails before I lean my elbow against my desk, my chin on my fist. ‘But, as it turns out, cat-sitting pampered hellcats, hell-bent on escape is, well, a job and a half.’

  ‘Some of them have such ridiculous names. Kizzy Stardust was one of them, right?’

  ‘David Meowie and Pawdry Hepburn, but that was weeks ago.’

  I’m now looking after five cantankerous entitled Persians who all require individual diets and exactly fifteen minutes of “me” time in the evening. At least, that’s what the folder decrees, the instruction manual each owner leaves with directives for their beloved pet or pets care. I’m pretty diligent as a rule, and I try my best to stick to it, but there’s no way I’m spending my evenings getting covered in cat hair. They get a quick brush and ought to be thankful I’m not giving them the once-over with the vacuum hose.

  But caring for those two hairless cats seems now like a distant memory. Though in reality, it was only last month that their hot neighbour rearranged my internal organs more than once that evening before proving himself to be no gentleman and all dude. It was a night of revelations, an experience I’ll never get to repeat again. After my fifth orgasm, I’d fallen back on the mattress exhausted and sated in ways I didn’t understand I could ever be, tucking the most secret of smiles into my pillow even overwhelmed as I was with the sense of something bittersweet. It was almost like the last night of a holiday when you’re reluctant to let go and travel home. But that’s not to say I’d anticipated waking to a pink bottom on the pillow next to me.

  Newsflash: it wasn’t his.

  So a dude. And we all know the dude is about the hit and split. I mean, that’s fine, I get it. But it might’ve been nice if he’d made his intentions clear before I went to sleep. It might’ve been nicer still if he’d closed the bedroom door behind him. Waking to a cat’s bum in your face isn’t the nicest experience.

  It was probably for the best that the agency had called early to tell me the house owner was returning unexpectedly that day. Sure, it left me hurrying around the house to tidy away the evidence of previous night in a panic, as well as packing my suitcase and getting ready for work, but at least I hadn’t had time to dwell. By the time the cleaning lady arrived at seven thirty, the only proof he’d been in the house at all was the bottle of single malt he’d left behind.

  And the ache between my legs.

  Still, I’ve chosen to think of the good aspects of the evening. Those broad shoulders and honed abs, and the way his body moved over mine. I might have chosen not to dwell on his swift and callous departure, but there are some things I haven’t been able to stop myself from thinking about. From recreating in my mind’s eyes in the dark.

  It’s a question of reframing the evening, I think.

  We had sex, the kind of mind-bending, thigh-shaking sex you only read about in books. Or maybe watch. Porn has its place, let me tell you. And can I recommend a female-centric subscription called Fast Girls. Beautifully curated stuff—stuff that makes you feel like you need a cigarette after just watching. In a manner of speaking, at least.

  ‘At least you’re cat-sitting in movie style.’

  ‘What?’ Heather’s voice pulls me from my musing, smutty and otherwise.

  ‘Notting Hill, darling. Home of William Thacker and Anna Scott.’ She affects an RP accent, a bit like the Queen. Maybe even posher.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts? Starring as? The eponymous movie and all that?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. That.’ I cross my legs and wince, the graze on my knee still causing me a few twinges. But I refuse to think about whisky for medicinal purposes or soft breath on my skin.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You just shivered. Anyway, I was talking about Notting Hill. That vibrant London hamlet, the place of greenery and space. Of grand porticoed terraced houses and streets painted the pastel colours of macarons.’

  ‘Notting Hill. The place ordinary people can’t afford to live.’ At least, not people like me. It’s not like I come from an impoverished background; my dad is a dentist and my mum a teacher. But there are very few twenty-two-year-olds living in their own homes in the city of London. Rentals and flat shares are my immediate destiny unless I decide I can offload this ring.

  ‘But at least you get to live there for a little while. Well, at least until your little pussies get their real mummy back.’

  ‘Never ever say that word again.’

  She laughs as I scrunch up a page of my notebook and throw it across the office in the direction of her desk. Unfortunately, Jorge gets in the way as he makes his tenth pilgrimage to the tiny communal kitchen. But when the boss lady is away, the drones will play, I suppose. Though according to Heather, Jorge barely even looks at his computer since Olivia, our boss, got hitched. Jealousy, we both guess.

  As far as marriages go, Olivia and Beckett’s was sudden, and if I’m honest, a little strange.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Heather continues, ‘I’m stuck living at the arse end of nowhere, waking at the butt-crack of dawn just to get into the office.’

  ‘I can’t help that I’m miles away.’ I try my best to drive her into work—and home—but it’s just not possible at the minute. ‘You know I go where the agency sends me.’ Honestly? I think I’d go to Timbuktu to get away from my parents as they prepare for an acrimonious divorce. ‘At least you’re getting paid for going into the office.’ She was supposed to be interning this summer just for the experience, but somehow, she’s wrangled an hourly wage from Oliv
ia. ‘Better cold hard cash than being paid in praise.’

  ‘Yeah, money does make the coffee runs easier to deal with.’ She slides a disgusted sort of look in the direction of Jorge, her office nemesis. Actually, as far as opponents go, he’s not a very challenging one. More a stroppy, flouncy, big girl’s blouse of an adversary.

  Ah, the tricky tasks of the intern. Actually, that’s not fair. Heather’s understanding of social media and the algorithms that drive them is pretty astounding.

  ‘No, that doesn’t suit me.’ Both our heads turn to the echoey sound of Olivia’s voice, and the click of her heels in the stairwell. As she arrives in the open-plan, warehouse-style office, her brows are pinched in a frown. ‘I’m not particularly interested in that right now.’ Brows aside, there’s little need to guess who she’s talking to by both her tone and the flush in her cheeks ‘Yes, well, you know where you can ram that suggestion. You don’t? Where the sun doesn’t shine, darling.’ And with that, she hangs up the phone, her expression like Pawdry Hepburn with the cream.

  She is literally the strangest newlywed person ever. Anyone would think she doesn’t like her hot AF husband.

  ‘What are you smiling about?

  ‘Me?’ she replies innocently, pushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. ‘Why, nothing.’

  ‘Sell that somewhere else.’ I return my attention to my keyboard. ‘I’m not buying it.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve seen that evil villain smile somewhere before, haven’t we?’

  ‘Probably on my husband,’ Olivia mutters as she looks down at her phone. She pauses suddenly, one hand on her cheek. ‘Maybe I’m turning into him?’

  ‘No, boss babe. That’s dogs.’

  We both turn to Heather’s pronouncement, who doesn’t have much of a filter, and though she often seems to say the first thing that comes into her head, there’s usually sense behind it. Sort of.

  ‘People who get pets; the pets turn into them or vice versa. I’m sure I read something in the newspaper about that. But not really, because people pick their animals based on a sense of familiarity. Same with cars and stuff. A man with a square jaw is more likely to choose a car with a brute fender. A girl with long curly hair will probably choose poodle or a Portuguese waterdog or something.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Or just plain off the wall.

  ‘Actually, come to think of it,’ Heather adds, tapping her pencil against her cheek, ‘I’m pretty sure the article drew parallels between how humans choose mates.’

  ‘It takes an evil smirk to know an evil smirk, then?’ I shoot Olivia a wink.

  ‘You’re saying I’m turning into Beckett?’

  ‘Maybe you saw the same qualities in him that you saw in yourself,’ suggests Heather.

  ‘I’m not morally bankrupt,’ she says with a snort. By her expression, she immediately regrets her response. But whether from calling him out, outing him as an evil villain, or the snort, it’s hard to tell. Maybe I have too much time on my hands today.

  ‘One man’s ruthlessness is what another woman calls commitment and drive. And as for choosing a mate solely on looks, you match him there, boss babe.’ As I make to move past her, I lick my index finger and mime a sizzle as I press it to her arm. ‘Smokin’!’

  She’s gorgeous herself, but Beckett, her Richie-rich venture capitalist husband, is like the second hottest man I’ve ever met. Hot neighbour dude being the first.

  I wonder what he does for a living? I banish the thought immediately because the office is not the place for thoughts of him.

  ‘Olivia?’

  ‘Yes, Jorge?’ Her back to him, she rolls her eyes but fixes on a smile as she turns.

  ‘I’d like to have a word with you about the state of the staff fridge, if I may.’

  Jorge stands at the other side of the office in his unironic grandad cardigan and suede beetle crushers. Hasn’t anyone told him men over thirty shouldn’t wear skinny jeans? Especially when they make him look like he’s left his butt at home? A Star Wars mug clasped to his chest, it’s almost as though he expects that the owner and director of our company is about to accompany him to the tiny kitchenette.

  Honestly, he’s been a pain since I started here, the biggest sourpuss, but since Olivia came back from the US and announced she’d married the man she’d previously tried to tell us she disliked, it’s like he’s sucked all the pleasure out of the office.

  ‘Maybe you can email me your concerns,’ she answers breezily. ‘I’ve got quite a full schedule today.’ Before he can answer, she whips back around to me, propping her hip against my desk. ‘Where are we at with the speed dating evening?’

  ‘Well, three of last year’s Lust Island contestants have confirmed.’

  ‘I’m really not sold on their attendance.’ Her expression twists. ‘I know we’ve had this conversation before, but I really don’t think reality TV contestants bring the right feel.’

  We’ve been going back and forth over this for weeks. I know what the problem is; she sees them as representative of all that’s wrong in the dating world. And maybe she’s right on some level. Lust Island is a TV show where the contestants live in a bubble basically, isolated from the outside world. They arrive as couples but don’t always leave the island with the same person, often swapping or changing as partners are dumped and contestants are eliminated. But what Olivia seems to be missing is the fact that they then become public figures, and that our demographic is sort of obsessed with these semi-celebs. When the show is running, the ratings are huge. The world and his wife have a couple they’re rooting for and the contestant we love to hate. We become invested in their lives afterwards, and that’s why the application list to attend this event is huge.

  ‘But they’re all single and ready to mingle,’ I sing in response.

  ‘That’s not helping.’ Her brows draw in as she taps her phone against her chin. ‘We’re selling meaningful connections, not hook-ups and partner swaps they sell on the show.’

  ‘And as I’ve said, casual often leads to more, and sometimes very quickly.’

  ‘Don’t say it.’ She holds up a forestalling hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but my marriage isn’t anyone’s business but mine.’

  ‘And Beckett’s,’ I add. ‘And like it or not, the fact that you married him has been good for business. People are invested in your relationship, too.’

  ‘I just don’t get why.’

  ‘Does it matter? You’re not selling your soul. It’s just good business sense.’

  ‘Personally, I think Lust Island is a valid exploration of humanity.’

  Olivia and I both turn to Heather, who raises her head from the study of her laptop.

  ‘I thought you enjoyed it because of all the hard, tanned, naked man chest?’

  ‘That’s just a bonus.’ Heather waves away my words. ‘And payback for centuries of sexual objectification of the female form.’

  ‘So it’s your duty as a feminist to perv, is it?’

  ‘I’m going for my lunch,’ Jorge announces loudly, flouncing out of the office like he’s in need of a chromosomal top up of the Y variety.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Heather huffs, folding her arms.

  ‘He just wants to get boss babe here in a confined space.’ My tone might be a touch salacious. Just for fun.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ Olivia replies with just a hint of censure in her tone.

  ‘You’re right. It’s not. But there’s no escaping the fact that the man is mourning what could have been. He’s totally still got the hots for you, but now his unrequited love has taken on a touch of the tragic.’

  ‘It will be tragic if Beckett finds out,’ Heather adds with a snort.

  ‘Beckett won’t care an ounce.’ Olivia’s delivery is careless as she slides her phone into the pocket of her pants.

  ‘It’s not like he’ll be threatened, true, but he still won’t be very pleased with the thought of one of your staff mooning after you.’

  ‘He doesn
’t moon. Now back to the matter in hand. The Lust Island guys.’

  ‘Look, they’re bringing a decent amount of publicity, and like it or not, they’ve certainly helped create a buzz. I’ve had to close the applications. More people want to attend than we have space for.’

  ‘Really?’ Her brow furrows. ‘Why? What’s so attractive about hanging out with a bunch of self-aggrandising bleached and buffed assholes?’

  ‘Harsh, boss babe, harsh. Besides,’ I add, ‘we don’t know if they bleach their bum holes.’

  ‘And I, for one, have no intention of finding out,’ sniggers Heather.

  ‘Don’t even.’ Olivia grimaces. In fact, she looks a little green around the gills. ‘How can anyone who signs up live under the scrutiny of constant filming be normal?’

  ‘The public doesn’t want them to be normal. They can get normal from the person sitting on the sofa next to them, picking their noses, farting, and worse.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were such a romantic,’ she deadpans.

  I smile, a sort of closed-mouth deal, mainly to make sure my lips remain sealed. She married a man following a whirlwind romance, and though he’s pretty bloody gorgeous, he’s still a man. I give him another month. Everyone farts.

  Except for the people on TV.

  And only because that’s edited out from the around-the-clock filming.

  ‘Normal is overrated. Besides, who’s to say what’s normal in this tangled and chaotic glory that is the world.’

  Heather’s response results in Olivia looking disconcerted.

  ‘I’m not denigrating anyone’s choices. I’m just saying I have concerns. But if the event is sold out . . . ’

  ‘We have a waiting list. And the Evening News is sending a features journalist and a photographer along. It’s a winning idea, I’m telling you.’

  ‘From a winning employee?’

  ‘Well, if there are any competitions—’

  ‘We’d probably tie,’ interjects Heather, her attention still on her laptop.

  ‘Ha, in your dreams, part-timer. But if you’re a good little cousin, I’ll let you carry my trophy. There is a trophy, right?’