by Niamh Greene
And I was almost right. New York was exactly as I had imagined. Everything was perfect. In fact, it was beyond perfect, especially when Charlie got down on one knee at the top of the Empire State Building and proposed, completely out of the blue.
I was shocked at first – we didn’t know each other that well, after all – but then when I thought about it, it started to make sense. When you know, you know, right? Well, maybe I didn’t exactly know that he was the One when I first met him. There wasn’t that instant chemistry thing like there had been with David, that sensation you get when you look into someone’s eyes and feel like you’ve come home. But how often does that happen? Once in a lifetime, if that. And when I blocked David from my mind and concentrated on Charlie properly, I realized he was perfect for me. He obviously adored me and now he wanted to take care of me for the rest of our lives. It’s true I didn’t know his shoe size or even his middle name, but he was proposing on top of the Empire State Building – that has to be one of the top ten places in the world to ask someone to marry you. Maybe it was a sign – a sign that we were made for each other. So, after staring at him with my mouth open for what seemed like an eternity, I accepted and he whisked me off to buy the ring. I never thought I wanted a diamond engagement ring, but Charlie was absolutely insistent that we get something really special, so somehow I found myself in Tiffany’s sipping champagne and trying on enormous rocks in a private curtained area while a skinny saleswoman simpered round me and Charlie looked on, beaming. In no time at all, I really got into the spirit of things (lots of champagne can have that effect) and when he finally slipped a massive solitaire onto my ring finger I was genuinely over the moon.
But now he’s left me. Maybe Al is right – maybe I didn’t really know him at all.
‘Molly? Are you OK?’
Tanya is still talking to me. She rubs the fleshy part of my palm with her thumb and I realize I’m twisting my massive solitaire engagement ring round and round.
‘Listen, don’t worry. I’m sure this is nothing. Let’s make you another cup of tea and we’ll figure it out. You just relax.’ She helps me off the floor and up onto the sofa, tucking a blanket round my legs.
Then she and Al disappear into the kitchen and the kettle is switched on again. I lean back against the seat and try to breathe. If I concentrate on breathing then maybe my chest will stop feeling like a massive weight is bearing down on it, crushing my lungs.
If Tanya is right, Charlie will be back soon and all this will be nothing. Nothing at all. But what if she’s wrong – what if he’s not coming back? What if he’s gone for good?
Julie’s Blog
9.05 a.m.
Mr X is due in at any minute, so I have to devise my plan immediately. Like right this second.
9.06 a.m.
Impossible to concentrate. All the UCs (useless colleagues) are driving me crazy chattering about pointless press releases and publicity opportunities for self-obsessed authors. Some two-page spread on a new chick-lit writer has them foaming at the mouth with excitement. Banter is doing my head in – who cares if a brainless bimbo has shot straight to number one in the book charts and wants to tell us all about her perfect life and gorgeous children on the pages of the national papers? Not me. Anyway, I know for a fact that she hates her husband, employs two nannies and has a secret Vicodin problem.
9.08 a.m.
UC One is trying to claim full responsibility for new chick-lit bimbo’s success – she’s now passing round her special-recipe home-baked muffins to celebrate the two-page spread. They’re all talking about sales going through the roof, breaking industry records, blah, blah. UC One keeps saying in a very smug voice, ‘I just knew the Gazette would love the kids angle – a two-page spread is almost impossible to get, you know. I really think she might be the next Carla Ryan.’
As if! Every female writer wants to be the next Carla Ryan, queen of chick lit, but most of them don’t stand a chance. The only one who comes close is that brassy blonde Noreen Brady, and that’s only because she’s always happy to wear low-cut tops in photo shoots.
Just caught UC Two making stabbing signs behind UC One’s back. Ha!
9.10 a.m.
Oh God, God, God. He’s going to be here any minute. Feel a bit hot. Maybe I should turn up the air conditioning. I’m starting to regret wearing this tight red top now, even if it is Mr X’s favourite.
9.11 a.m.
I know! I’ll email N and R for advice. They’re my oldest friends and I trust their opinions – they’ll tell me what to do. Just hope they don’t tell me anything I don’t want to hear – like that it’s immoral to bonk your boss in the stationery cupboard.
9.13 a.m.
Email from N:
He’s hot – you fancy him – what harm can it do? He’s not cheating on you. Why don’t you give him a proper welcome back – I would! Fill me in later – I want every single detail and don’t you dare leave anything out! Great idea to wear that sure-thing tight red top – that’ll drive him wild!
N has a very good point. I’m not cheating on anyone. I’m not married. Or living with anyone. Or even dating anyone. So, in theory, I have nothing to worry about. Except my conscience. And my black soul and eternal damnation.
9.15 a.m.
Email from R:
He’s MARRIED, end of story. You have to stop this now. Pretend it never happened. Or, even better, resign – then you’ll never have to see him again. Either way you have to put a stop to it. BTW, tell me you’re not wearing that tarty red top.
Bloody typical of R to overreact. I can’t resign from a perfectly good job just because I had a fling with the boss. Plenty of people have affairs with their co-workers – it doesn’t mean they have to throw away their careers. Maybe she is right though – maybe I should act professional and pretend nothing happened. I could just stare vacantly at him every time he passes by, or smile vaguely at him in meetings, as if I simply can’t remember that he ever unfastened my bra with his teeth or photocopied my bum for fun after office hours.
9.17 a.m.
He’s back. He’s baaacccckkkkk… I can’t breathe. I CAN’T BREATHE.
9.18 a.m.
OK – I’m breathing. Will just have a little look at him.
9.19 a.m.
Oh God, he looks really sexy. Has very dark tan and hair is all shaggy and dishevelled, like he’s just strolled off a tropical beach. Which of course he almost has – he only flew home a day or two ago. Think I can actually smell coconut oil floating from his golden skin and wafting across the office. Have insane urge to stalk across the room, throw all the files from his desk and lick his chest. Will not do that of course. Will be poised and professional and pretend I am unaware of his existence, just like R advised.
9.21 a.m.
UCs are flocking round Mr X’s desk to welcome him back – it’s pathetic. UC One is practically drooling on him and trying to force-feed him a home-baked muffin. I, on the other hand, haven’t even looked in his direction. Am very proud I’m doing so well. Maybe this will be easier than I thought. Of course I haven’t done any official work as such, except for updating this blog… but I can’t be expected to multi-task so soon. The main thing is, I can manage to be in the same office as Mr X and feel completely indifferent to him. Obviously now that he’s married my intense physical desire for him has simply fizzled out. Thank you, God!!!
9.25 a.m.
Have composed two whole lines of a press release – not bad going, considering. Just have to finish it and then devise a brilliant media strategy to ensure optimum press saturation and therefore massive sales for my client Mr Dick Lit.
Am sure it won’t take long – I’ll just copy the same old template as always.
9.28 a.m.
Still pretending to work. Really observing Mr X from behind two-line press release. Cannot see any visible tan lines anywhere on his deliciously chiselled body. In fact, the colour of his silky smooth skin is completely even all over, as if he rotated himself o
n a spit every few minutes while sunbathing. Or else he has applied bottle tan very carefully. Although his skin is mahogany brown, not orange or streaky in any way, and there are no telltale lines on his palms. Maybe he used latex gloves? Or could it be spray-on? Cannot imagine him in a booth wearing goggles and a thong, but it is possible.
9.32 a.m.
Mr X’s hair is curling round his collar. He looks exactly like Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean, all sweaty and gorgeous. Am trying very hard to ignore him and continue to be poised and professional, but do feel a bit hot and flustered. Really wish I’d put a stick deodorant in my bag. Maybe I should splash some water on my face. Or get a drink from the water cooler. Or maybe not – the water cooler is right beside his desk. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to get his attention when I’m actually trying to do the opposite.
9.35 a.m.
Hmmmm… Mr X is fiddling with his wedding band a lot – keeps twirling it round and round his finger, like it’s irritating him in some way – very interesting behaviour.
9.37 a.m.
Mr X has just taken off his wedding band and tossed it onto his desk, like it means nothing to him. And I’ve just noticed that there’s no white mark on his ring finger – which means he must have been sunbathing without it on. Very, very interesting. Wonder if his new wife is aware he has been removing his wedding band already – while on honeymoon in fact. Possibly while she went indoors for a nap and he flirted with the cocktail waitress. Not that I care if he was – it’s nothing to do with me, he can flirt with whomever he wants, we’re both free agents. Well, he’s not of course, he’s a married man. But I’m a free agent. Completely and totally free. As a bird. So if I wanted to flirt with anyone, I could. Except not with him any more. Which is fine. Completely and totally fine.
9.38 a.m.
God, I’m really, really thirsty. Parched actually. Maybe I’ll just saunter casually over and get a drink, no big deal.
9.41 a.m.
Back from water cooler – managed to look completely casual. Even snuck in a sideways glance to see if Mr X was secretly watching me but… he wasn’t. He had his head buried in paperwork. He didn’t even acknowledge my existence.
9.42 a.m.
Of course, maybe he’s trying to be discreet.
9.43 a.m.
Yes, that’s it – he doesn’t want to raise suspicion of UCs by talking to me.
9.44 a.m.
Still, he could have said hello. That wouldn’t have killed him. What did he think I was going to do – leap across his desk and rip his clothes off?
9.45 a.m.
Right, that’s it. Two can play at that game. I won’t speak to him either. That’ll be perfect, actually. He won’t speak to me, I won’t speak to him – no confusion. No saucy banter, no illicit snogging. This is ideal.
9.49 a.m.
Just caught Mr X looking at me. Could feel the heat of his eyes on my face so glanced up and our eyes locked for a split second – it was electric. Crap.
9.51 a.m.
Email from Mr X:
I need to speak to you urgently. Meet me in the stationery cupboard in five minutes.
What’s that about? He can’t think I’m going to give him a welcome-back shag the second he walks back into the office from his honeymoon? Even I’m not that crass.
9.53 a.m.
Then again, he does look amazing. His skin looks so… buttery.
9.55 a.m.
But I won’t give in. He can’t just ignore me one minute and then expect me to fall all over him the next, that’s not the way it works. And there’s something else as well, there’s another reason I can’t give in… what is it again? I can’t think – the way he’s staring at me from across the room has made my mind go blank.
9.57 a.m.
Oh yes. He’s married. I knew there was something else. How could I have forgotten that – even for a split second? It’s just so strange to think that he’s a husband now. I have to keep repeating it in my head: doing it with a married man would be very, very WRONG. Maybe I should stick a Post-it note on my PC to remind me.
10.08 a.m.
Oh. My. God. Mr X just told me in the stationery cupboard that
a)he loves me
b)he made a big mistake getting married
c)he has left his wife
d)he wants to move in with me
Then he threw me across the photocopier and kissed me passionately before I could say a word. He wants to come round after work with his stuff. He says he can’t wait to begin his new life with me and that we’re going to be ecstatically happy together but that we have to keep it quiet for a little while because people might be shocked if they knew.
People might be shocked? I’m shocked! I had no idea his feelings for me were so strong. All this time, when I thought we were having a sex-only, no-strings-attached affair, he was really falling in love with me! And now he’s left his wife for me. I can’t believe it. It’s so romantic. But it’s also so… unexpected. We never discussed him leaving his wife. If I think about it, we never discussed much of anything at all except how much we wanted to rip each other’s clothes off. Now he wants us to live together. In my flat. And see each other. All the time.
10.11 a.m.
Feel all trembly and weak. Can’t decide if I’m happy or terrified. Think I might be about to faint. What do you do if you feel faint? Put your head between your legs? Can’t do that here – UCs would know something was wrong. Maybe I could discreetly breathe into a paper bag – there has to be one around here somewhere. UC One definitely has some under her desk – she always carries her homemade muffins in them – but I can’t ask her, she’d be bound to notice I was hyperventilating and want to know why.
10.13 a.m.
UC One just asked if I was OK – I knew it wouldn’t be long before she spotted something was wrong. She said I look green round the gills. Then she laughed that awful braying laugh of hers. Told her my blood sugar level was probably low because I hadn’t eaten anything yet, and she presented me with one of her special-recipe home-baked muffins and told me to tuck in. Have hidden the muffin in my drawer – her special recipe smells uncannily like vomit.
10.16 a.m.
Email from R:
So, have you kicked him to the kerb then? I think forgetting all about him is the right thing to do – cut all ties and pretend your affair never happened. This is a fresh new start for you – who knows what could happen! You could meet the man of your dreams and be living in bliss with him this time next year!
Oh God. Have to lie to R. If she finds out that Mr X has left his wife and wants to move in with me then I’m done for.
10.18 a.m.
Just thought. If Mr X was to move in with me, we could have as much hot sex as we like – any time we like. We wouldn’t have to sneak around any more. We could get down and dirty whenever we want, however we want. That could be good. That could be better than good. That could be amazing. Maybe this will work. And, if I think about it, what he’s done is very romantic – he loves me so much he can’t bear to be another second away from me. It’s like something out of a Carla Ryan novel. Maybe I should send him a quick email, just to let him know I’m happy about everything. Now the nausea has passed I’m almost sure that’s how I’m feeling.
10.20 a.m.
Email to Mr X:
Hey you, can’t wait to see you later…
10.22 a.m.
Email from Mr X:
Meant to say earlier – it’s probably best if you don’t send me any ‘personal’ emails for a while, just in case.
What’s he talking about? What will I do with my time if we can’t even email each other? Emailing him and updating this blog are the only things that get me through the day! Not that I would ever admit that, of course.
10.24 a.m.
Email to Mr X:
Right.
10.25 a.m.
Email from Mr X:
It’s not that I can’t wait to get my ha
nds on you, but we have to be more careful now. Just for a while, until we can tell everyone. Can’t wait to do unspeakable things to you tonight at your place…
Feel all hot and bothered now, just thinking about that. Can’t believe we’re going to be alone together every single night!
10.27 a.m.
Crap. Just remembered. Left the flat like a bomb site this morning. It took so long to find anything decent to wear that in the end I emptied almost everything I owned onto the bedroom floor in a panic. And I don’t think I did the washing up last night. Or the night before. But that’s only because I was so busy watching TV. I’m not usually so untidy. I’ll just shoot home at lunchtime and sort it out. Mr X has never seen where I live and I don’t want him to think I’m a slob. Come to think of it, I may have slightly exaggerated the size and general grandeur of my apartment to him, but I’m sure he won’t notice – will keep the lights dimmed just in case.
