by Alam, Donna
Oh, I am so fucking fucked.
The rest of the morning passes glacially slow. And while I so want to go running to the pharmacy, I also want to remain in the dark. Blissful ignorance and all that. Also, I have work to do, which is currently occupying my mind somewhat. Thankfully, Heather is busy too, updating our social media feeds with photographs she’d taken on Friday evening. Everyone looks to be having fun, girls smiling widely flanked by the Lust Island crew. Couples smiling shyly at each other from across the table.
The feedback cards tell another story, however. And it’s this information I’m trying to collate.
Brent
Arrogant is the general consensus among the female attendees, with one or two outlying comments.
Nice eyes.
So hot!
Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
But 0vercompensating for a pencil dick has to be my favourite comment.
Alesha.
Should stick to cats.
She smells like cats.
Nice person. Would like to be friends and have cat playdates.
George.
Cor, what a honker. I wouldn’t mind that full of tequila.
Nice man. Shame about his face.
I’d sit on his face. I’m going to take that as a reference to his large nose rather than someone with a fetish for smothering.
Zoya.
Said she was pansexual. Didn’t like it when I asked her if she could take the whole thing or just the handle.
‘Oh, man. I’m done.’
‘That bad?’ Heather replies, looking up.
‘Worse. I’m not even sure how to categorise some of these answers.’ Sorting through some of these has added to my queasiness. I feel like I should’ve worn rubber gloves just to handle them. ‘We might have a few matches. Mostly for the same few people.
‘Which ones were they?’
‘Well, a lot of the guys liked Melody.’
‘Because she has big tits.’ She nods sagely. ‘Men. So predictable.’
Thankfully, Jorge has gone for lunch, so there are no gender/harassment/petty for pettiness sakes flames to douse.
‘And Prudence seems to have had a few admirers, too.’
‘Which one was that?’
‘You’re asking me? I can barely remember being there. Was she short?’ Something snags at my memory.
‘Oh, she was the chick with the squeaky voice. Her name is a total misnomer, by the way.’
‘Fancy words, Heth.’
‘I’ve got an A star in English language at A level,’ she retorts, mentioning her recent exam results as she blows on her fingernails before pretending to polish them on her T-shirt. ‘And she was so not a Prudence.’
‘I didn’t realise names have to suit people these days.’ I laugh a little, pushing the cards into neater piles. ‘I think I’ll go and grab a sandwich from the bakery for lunch.’ And by that, I mean pop into the pharmacy. Maybe. Or maybe I should wait until I’m on my way home? Either way, the thought of leaving my desk in a mess gives me the heebie-jeebies. A place for everything and everything in its place. It’s the little things that make me content. And it’s only the little things in life right now that I have control over.
Babies are little, my mind whispers.
Ignore!
‘I’m just saying you shouldn’t find a nun named Candi or a sex worker called Prudence.’
‘And she’s a sex worker?’
‘No, a teacher or something. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a sex worker.’
‘Agreed.’
‘In fact, I think this government has failed in their duty to these women.’
‘Prudence?’ I say, hopefully pushing her from her soapbox before she has the chance to climb up there to begin pontificating.
‘Oh, right. The point is, the way she was hanging around the Lust Island guys was anything but prudent. She was the one who started the whole “oh, I don’t have any paper to get your autograph” and before I could reach for my notebook, she’d whipped down the neck of her dress, practically to her navel.’
‘Oh, so she started the sign my tits thing?’
‘From the skin she was flashing, they could’ve signed her v—’
‘Okay, I get the picture.’
‘I know boss babe is all about the “authentic match” and not the “hookup”,’ she says, making air quotes, ‘but you can’t control that sort of stuff. I bet a heap of them woke on Saturday morning in a stranger’s bed.’
I’m saying nothing. I’m also willing myself not to turn red, not that Heather seems to notice.
‘Honestly, if romance isn’t dead, I think someone should sign its DNR order.’
‘So cynical.’
‘I’m a realist. I’m not saying I don’t believe in love. I just don’t think you can force it.’
‘Speed dating was just supposed to be a little fun. Some publicity for the brand. We weren’t expecting hearts and flowers and declarations of undying commitment.’
‘Personally, I was expecting a little decorum.’
‘I have nothing to add on that note.’ Because people who live in glass houses definitely shouldn’t throw stones. Or go home knickerless.
‘You get a pass,’ she answers with a kind look.
‘I hope Olivia feels the same way,’ I mutter, my stomach tightening again. Every time I think about her, I get the same sickly lurch—not vomit sickly but worried sickly. Part of me wishes she would stay away until we both forget about that whole episode, while part of me wants to drive to Hampstead right now just to get the whole ordeal over with.
‘If you explain it to her, she just might.’
I shake my head. Where would I begin? Even without the worry currently plaguing my mind, there has been so much that I haven’t told her. Why? Because she’s my boss, not my friend. I don’t want to admit what a fuckup I am. I’d much prefer to retain her respect than to exchange it for her pity. So no. ‘No excuses. I’ll take what she has to say on the chin. My behaviour wasn’t professional. I accept that.’
‘At least you weren’t behaving like a bitch in heat.’
Not that she saw, anyway. Later that night? A whole different story.
Was that hormones? Whore-moans more like.
‘I was thinking.’ Heather’s words pull me my wallowing. ‘I might get a card or something for Harry.’
‘Who’s Harry?’
‘Beckett’s friend. The one who made sure you got home on Friday night? Don’t tell me you don’t remember his name,’ she adds, puzzled. ‘Not after all the trouble he went to.’
‘I-I just forgot it for a moment.’ I turn my attention to powering down my laptop to avoid her gaze. Did he give me a fake name? It seems ridiculous, but still, I can’t help but wonder? And if he did give me a fake name, why?
Unless those acquisitions are illegal.
It’s more likely a nickname.
Screw it. What difference does it make? It’s not like we move in the same circles. He could be called anything, and it would have no impact on my life.
Except if he’s about to become a baby daddy.
Which he isn’t because this is just my mind playing tricks on me.
‘Yeah, well I was thinking about getting him a card to say thank you for going after you on my behalf. Maybe a bottle of wine? A bottle of wine I was thinking you could pay for. You know, as your thank you.’
‘I don’t think either of us could afford the kind of wine he’s used to drinking.’
Besides, I’ve already expressed my gratitude for the night in other ways.
Oh, God, please! Yes! Yes!
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ she says with a sniff as I duck my head because it’s the thought that causes my cheeks to redden and my insides to pound inappropriately. ‘Anyway, how would you know what kind of stuff he drinks?’
Once, it was a single malt that had tasted heavenly from his tongue.
‘Did you not see t
he car he was driving?’ I lock my desk drawer and pull out the key. ‘Plus, he’s a friend of Beckett’s. If you ask me, we’ll probably never see him again.’
Because I’m not pregnant and—
My head whips up at the sound of a deep chuckle.
‘Did no one never tell you what happens when you say the devil’s name?’
17
Miranda
Speak of the Devil and he doth appear.
‘Hey, Harry!’ Heather chirps as though his appearance in the office is the most natural thing ever—like he bloody works here!
James . . . Harry . . . whoever he is, is standing in my office space, all gorgeous fair hair and twinkling blue eyes. And that suit? Total office porn. Steel grey, summer weight, the fine fabric clings to his strong thighs. A blue button-down open at the neck that brings out the brilliance of his eyes.
God, I bet he’ll make beautiful babies sometime.
Not with me, obviously.
‘Hello, Heather.’ He does a double take that makes me roll my lips together to stifle a chuckle. Of course, this is his first look at office attire Heather. At the speed dating evening, she’d pulled off demure with ballet flats and a smart looking shirt and skirt combo, but on a regular day, my cousin is all about graffitied Doc Martin boots and leggings paired with one of a number of brightly coloured tutus. She might even break out a statement T-shirt or ten. This morning’s is a black affair adorned with flowers and cursive script that declares:
Grow a Pair
It’s not until a second look that you see the flowers aren’t in vases but woven into the appearance of a pair of ovaries.
Anyway, I’ll give him credit, whoever he is—Harry? James?—with the manners not to make it obvious he’s surprised.
‘Are you here to see Olivia?’ Heather asks without waiting for an answer. ‘She’s not in today. She’s ill.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he answers smoothly, ‘but I’m actually here to see Miranda.’
‘What?’ I ask sharply as Heather squeaks, ‘Really?’
‘Is there a problem?’ He uses that easy tone of his as he slides his hands into the pockets of his pants, almost rocking back on his heels.
Bastard. He’s enjoying this way too much. What kind of a douche lord turns up to a girl’s place of work when she’s already intimated it’s off-limits? That she’s off-limits? Did the fact that I snuck out of his bed without leaving my phone number mean anything to him at all?
‘I thought I might steal you away for lunch.’
I’m already shaking my head before he’s finished this sentence, but I find I also have to bite my lip against the urge to retort, like you stole my knickers, because they were nowhere in sight that morning.
‘Sorry. I can’t.’ Using the key still in my hand, I bend and unlock my desk drawer again. ‘I have far too much work to do. You know, with Olivia being ill.’ My words fall out in a rush, and I can’t bring myself to look at him because no good can come of this. Because looking leads to touching, and touching leads to all kinds of other things.
‘You just said you were going for a sandwich.’
No, I was going for a pregnancy test—in relation to my relations with that man!
I find I can look at Heather, even if I wish I hadn’t because I can almost see the cogs whirring in her brain, the million questions being formed, questions that I’ll be bombarded with at some point later.
‘Yes. But. Well. That was before. Before I realised I’d already brought my lunch with me today.’
‘You know that squashed cereal bar you found last week at the bottom of your bag can’t be classified as lunch.’ Her expression is a strange combination of reflection and perverseness. You know that saying; give them enough rope? I feel like that’s what she’s handing me. Rope. Yards and yards of it. And whether I leave this office with him or not, I know I’m pretty much hung. Oh, for the love of God—hanged, not hung. That was not a Freudian slip in reference to what he has going on in his pants.
‘I just wanted to make sure you’re okay after Friday.’ His expression firms, a muscle clenching in his strong jaw.
‘Miranda’s very conscientious.’ Her attention turns to him. ‘She’s, like, the backbone of this office. She’s the marketing manager, you know.’ Why does she feel the need to talk me up? Hmm. I suppose because of the way I behaved on Friday night or him being a friend of Beckett’s. Unless there’s something else behind it. ‘But I’m sure she’s got time for a coffee.’
Is she trying to set me up?
‘I have so much to do.’ Some kind of primal sense of self-protection keeps me on my feet instead of leaning over the back of my chair as I wiggle my mouse in an attempt to bring my computer to life. When the screen in front of me doesn’t flicker, I do so again a little more violently. As an encore, I tap it against the side of the desk.
Hell. I already powered my computer down.
And then I realise they’re both staring at me.
‘I’m very, very busy.’
Busy freaking out.
‘Like you were Friday evening?’ Something in his manner causes my head to rise sharply. Was that a threat? ‘Getting busy.’
My fingers now poised over the silver keys, my mind snagging on his phrasing. This is one of those moments when you’re pretty sure you’ve misunderstood what’s been said but aren’t one hundred percent. But doesn’t getting busy mean—then the penny drops. Like an anvil.
‘Yes, we were all very busy that night.’ My gaze flicks to Heather who seems unaware of what’s just been said because there’s being busy and then there’s getting busy, but it seems to have gone over her head. ‘Busy, busy, busy.’ I suddenly feel like a player in the middle of a very British theatrical farce.
I can’t believe he’d turn up at my office in the middle of the workday, throwing euphemisms around with a hint of blackmail. I need to shut this down and tell him why Friday can’t happen again, but I can’t very well do it with Heather listening in. And I’ve no intention of doing so in the café downstairs. Walls have ears. Usually the ears of old ladies with a penchant for judgement and gossip, what I can tell from the place. I’ve no intention of being the topic of their gossiping.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I know who it’s from before I even look down.
We need to talk about this AFTER the hottie takes you for lunch.
I text back the emoji that looks like I’m flipping her the bird.
Please. I need to burn sage to smudge the sexual tension from this room. Do you want me to embarrass you?
More? I text back.
Cocktails tonight or I’m so telling everyone you snorted Grandad.
Et tu, Heather? Did I miss the memo? Is it Blackmail Monday today?
‘Last chance,’ he sort of taunts. Last chance before what? I’m not sure I’m willing to risk finding out.
‘Yes, okay. Fine. Twenty minutes won’t harm.’ I grab the office keys from my drawer and my purse from the back of my chair, throwing it over my shoulder a little aggressively. ‘Won’t be long,’ I murmur meaningfully as I pass Heather. Then I flounce my way out of the office.
In the hallway, I’m struck by a sudden idea, moving to the flight of stairs going up rather than the one going down.
‘This way,’ I murmur, gesturing the way as he emerges from the office behind me.
‘Any particular reason?’ he asks in that smooth tone of his.
‘I don’t want an audience.’ He chuckles darkly tempting. ‘In your dreams.’ I throw my retort over my shoulder. ‘And stop staring at my bum.’
‘I do so love watching you walk upstairs.’
His comment is a strange sort of validation, and I’m pleased he’s still behind me so he can’t see my smile.
At the top of the short flight, I unlock the door to Olivia’s new office. Up until a couple of weeks ago, her desk had been in the open-plan office downstairs, but since marrying Beckett, she’s made all kinds of changes. E-Volve has taken on new s
taff and another office upstairs, she’s implemented new processes, streamlined the app usage, and gotten herself a private office on the new floor. But despite marrying someone mega rich, she’s still the same Olivia, and I’m almost certain she won’t mind me using her office for a few minutes.
Almost certain.
The door opens, and I stride in, whirling around to face him as I fold my arms. The effect is spoiled a little as I realise he isn’t watching, his back half turned and facing me as he closes the door behind him. But then he turns and smiles so openly, I almost forgive him for everything. Until I remember I can’t.
And I can’t get involved with him.
‘I thought we might be better served with a little privacy.’ I try for aloof, which he appears to ignore.
‘I like your thinking.’ His gaze roams over me in a very obvious and avid sort of appraisal.
‘No!’ My arms slap against my sides as I drop them, suddenly exasperated. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but contrary to what you seem to think, I’m not good for it anytime, anywhere.’
‘As I recall, I asked you to lunch. At no time did I suggest you were to be the main course.’
‘Good, because I’m not having sex with you.’ Did I say that a little loud? Shout it even? I hope not. The office is in an old refurbished warehouse with brick walls, wooden floors, and cavernous ceilings—the noise carries through the space terribly. To put it another way, if we were to have sex on a quiet day in the office, Heather would hear. And how do I know? Because I’ve had to put the radio on downstairs during Beckett’s visits. ‘You know what, James, Harry, or whoever you are? I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon, so we’re going to make this quick.’
‘I can be quick.’
‘That’s not something to smirk about.’ Hell. We’re not supposed to be playing this game—and I’m not supposed to be encouraging this whole thing. Maybe coming up here wasn’t the best idea, after all.
‘It’s a skill,’ he replies smoothly. ‘One that’s especially important for those moments for when you’re time poor. If you’re very, very busy, it would only take me a couple of minutes to get you off.’
