by Alam, Donna
‘Hah!’ The noise that’s expelled from my throat is pretty violent. ‘You really are a piece of work.’
‘It’s all true. Clara is a nice girl, but that’s all she is. A girl. A girl with smarts and ambition, but she’s also—’
‘The boss’s daughter?’
‘I was going to say not interested in me in that way. And the same goes the other way around. But you and me? I reckon we could be mates.’
Sparring partners maybe.
‘There really was nothing untoward going on. Believe me?’
‘I think that’d depend on your definition of untoward.’ I look up, giving him one of my best unimpressed looks. ‘Of how you’d paint that picture.’
‘Kinky.’ His eyes narrow as he hooks both elbows over the back of my high desk. ‘Paint that picture for you?’ he repeats, his voice suddenly dark and bedroom-y. ‘Are you a bit of a voyeur, Heather?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snap as I wonder at the same time if he lines his lashes. They’re so extravagant. It’s so unfair that both the eyebrow and lash fairy visited his crib.
‘It’s like you’re trying to get me to spill all the dirty details.’ His eyes glint in the light as though they’re full of wicked thoughts. ‘Sadly, for you at least, it was shop talk then home, and into bed by ten. Alone,’ he adds as my mouth opens with a retort. ‘You and I should go out sometime.’
‘I’m so not interested in Clara’s sloppy seconds.’ My reply drips with derision, and in return, one dark eyebrow rises like a question mark. It’s such an elegant and pointed motion, and one that almost implies that nothing about this man could ever be messy or careless.
‘I meant as workmates, but I can see you don’t believe me.’
‘Goodness, whatever gave you that idea? Apart from my mouth.’
‘You really think that was some clandestine tryst?’ Is he annoyed or disappointed? It’s really hard to tell. ‘I can’t tell if you think I’m that feckless or if you’re just enjoying dangling my nuts above a vise.’
Maybe we’re both hard to read.
‘I guess you’ll never know,’ I answer flippantly. Maybe I should suggest he takes an office poll because I’m pretty sure the verdict would be unanimous.
The question: Archer Powell, man slut or not?
The result the ballot papers would record: Hell to the yes, but we love him anyway!
Ugh!
‘Hand on my heart,’ he says as he straightens and does just that, ‘Clara told me she wanted to talk about the role of an analyst, business versus marketing, and whether getting her master’s degree before coming to work for her dear old dad would be beneficial. She could end up being my boss in a few years. Do you really think I would want to be in that position?’
‘Archer—’
‘Call me Arch. Or Archie.’
‘Why ever would I do that?’
‘Because that’s what my friends call me.’
‘Archer.’ I draw out his name with a perverse sense of glee. ‘I’m not sure any woman can claim to know what a man thinks.’ My exhilaration is followed by a stab of something unfamiliar as his brow creases. I try to ignore that poke of anxiety that I’m reading the signals wrong and open my laptop again as something to concentrate on. Am I currently bantering with the office heartthrob or making an enemy of him?
‘Men are simple creatures and our thoughts few.’
‘That I can believe,’ I murmur as I wonder if for a second time I’m imagining the fleeting brush of his gaze. ‘I can also believe you wouldn’t want a female boss.’
‘And your assumption would be wrong. Again. I’ve had lots of experience taking directions from women. I do it very, very well . . .’ he promises, I mean, replies.
What is wrong with me? I wonder, as my colour rushes to my cheeks. It’s not as though his remark was innuendo-filled; it avoided the cheap answer of him being proficient and/or enjoying working under women. He’s not flirting with me, and I’m certainly not flirting with him. I wouldn’t know where to start.
‘But I’m also pretty sensible, and I’m not interested in being shafted. I would never mess around with Clara—’
I’m not sure whether it’s the word shafted, but I suddenly recall what it was I was looking at on my laptop before Archer turned up. My gaze flicks down, the colour in my cheeks deepening as I press it closed. Or maybe slam it again.
‘—as well as the potential for being seriously career limiting, because . . . What are you watching over there?’ From serious to curious, he contorts his long frame over my desk, reaching as though to turn my laptop to face him.
‘That’s private,’ I protest rather primly, somehow squashing his fingers between the screen and the keyboard as I snatch it away.
‘Oh, vicious.’ As he brings his fingers to his pouty mouth, that very particular glint in his eye is back. It’s a look that echoes my dream, a look that has a very visceral effect on my body. But then his words sink in, albeit somewhat belatedly.
‘Vicious? What do you mean vicious?’ I reply indignantly. ‘I’m not vicious, or anything else horrible for that matter.’
‘I didn’t say you were horrible. In fact, I appreciate the whole cool, aloof thing you’ve got going on. And I have to say, I appreciate it a whole lot more now that I’m not viewing it from the other side of the meeting room.’
‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’ I’m not mean. I’m nice. At least, I try to be. But something about him just rubs me up the wrong way. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but I just know being around him brings out the worst in me.
‘C’mon, you’ve had nothing but disdain for me. Up until last night, at least.’
‘I am not aloof or disdainful or vicious. I’m just shy.’ And awkward—the kind of awkward that makes me so self-conscious, I’d rather not speak to people I don’t know at all. ‘I’m the one who brought cupcakes into the office on my birthday, remember? Meanwhile, you didn’t even know that was a thing!’
Who’s unfriendly now, eh? Answer me that!
‘I’m not sure a shy girl would be giving me such a hard time.’
‘I think the word you’re looking for is woman.’ Grrr.
‘Oh, you’re definitely that.’ This time, I absolutely see his gaze flicking over me with the sort of appreciation that makes my heart knock against my ribcage.
‘But I see it for what it is now. You’re just doing what you can to hide your terrible addiction to porn. And on company time, too.’ He tsks, a very unconvincing reprove of teeth and tongue. ‘And here I thought you were just treating us mean to keep us keen.’
‘Us? You know what?’ I add quickly, holding up a forestalling hand. ‘Never mind. You’re ridiculous.’ And teasing me, which is nothing but unkind.
‘And you are a dark horse,’ he accuses, his smile a wicked gleam of pearly white teeth. He slides his hands into his pockets before beginning to walk backwards, pausing at the door.
‘Haven’t you got something better to do?’ I retort, daring to open my laptop now that he’s almost out of the room. Just in case, I minimise the webpage.
Spoiler: it’s not porn.
‘There’s always something better to do than work, Heather.’
‘Even if it’s what we get paid for,’ I mutter, beginning to hammer the keys as I pretend to bang out an email. Since when does Archer Powell come into my office to banter? Since he needs something from me, is the obvious answer, even if part of me wants to believe something else.
‘Sometimes there’s even someone better to do.’ Did he just imply that he . . .? That I . . .? ‘Don’t forget to think of me when you’re licking the pearl off your cupcake.’
I gasp, but whether from the audaciousness of the man or the effect of his words, I’m not sure. I’ve never had anyone make me feel this . . . flustered. Half aroused. I open my mouth to tell him none of that, but as I look up, he’s already sauntering his way across the main office floor. The rear view is almost as gorge
ous. Also on the plus side, it doesn’t annoy me nearly half as much.
As my gaze moves on, I’m unlucky enough to catch the eye of Allison from the executive floor who, for some reason, is wearing the most calculating smile.
Either that or she’s suffering some kind of intestinal distress.
With a sigh, I maximise my webpage and take another look at the face that, just ten minutes ago, I’d thought as least as handsome as Archer Powell. It’s true he doesn’t have freckles, and his mouth isn’t quite so pouty, but he definitely has an air about him. The image in front of me is like a cut price version, not that a six-hour booking with a male escort will be any kind of cheap. Because yes, I’ve decided to book a date for next week even though just thinking that thought makes me feel a little bit sick. Hopefully, I can manage to contain my weirdness for a day, though I’ll probably need to sell a kidney to afford to go to this wedding, but needs must because Haydn is not getting the better of me.
But then, it’s with a jolt that I realise that of all the men on the website, the Icelandic-looking blondes and the Mediterranean hunks, I’m about to book a date with man who looks most like Archer Powell. A man who invaded my dreams last night. That has to be a coincidence, doesn’t it?
* * *
‘You’re a dark horse.’
While I’d much prefer to be described as a unicorn, I find I’m accused of being this mythical creature for the second time today, though this time I’m in the kitchen, and this time, the voice is one that doesn’t so much ruffle my feathers as it does cause my spine to stiffen.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Without looking up, I continue swirling the teabag around my cup.
‘You and Archie Powell.’ Allison drops her Tupperware container to the table crowded with old office chairs before making her way to the sink and leaning against it with her arms folded. Allison isn’t on my list of favourite people at E11even. In fact, she’s on the other list, the one with Haydn. A list of just two names. Hair dyed the colour of ash and the personality of a Disney witch, Allison is a fan of the short skirts and French-manicured talons the length of which must turn a visit to the bathroom into a game of Russian roulette, is so abrasive and sharp she isn’t anyone at E11even’s favourite workmate. But she’s also the person responsible for having expense remittance signed off unfortunately. And with great power comes great suck-up benefits, which is probably how she seems to know everything that goes on inside these glass walls.
Although, Em did suggest she might have a crystal ball.
No sign of flying monkeys, though.
Hey, Allison, I know something that you can’t possibly know.
Unless Archer and Clara have been at it in the bathroom, that is.
Ugh. Pass the mind bleach, would you?
‘Archie? Oh, Archer Powell. What about him?’ I add a splash of milk to my mug, my response indifferent as I watch the liquid turn the colour of red brick.
‘You don’t have to pretend. Not after the whole office saw you making googly eyes at him this morning.’
Were my eyes googly? They were definitely a bit roll-y, mostly in response to the man’s ego. I might’ve been goggle eyed at one or two points, but not so much googly.
‘And the cupcake from that posh little bakery on Carey Street? What was that all about?’
I shrug, a sort of rueful action, as I stir in half a teaspoon of sugar. ‘Between you and me, I think he might not be very bright.’
‘He’s like the smartest person in his department.’ The skin around her eyes tightens along with her arms under her bust. ‘He got a first from Oxford—something to do with pure maths and statistics. And I know for a fact he’s being groomed for the executive floor.’
I bite back a smile at her mention of those hallowed halls.
‘I don’t know what to say, Allison, except that he didn’t seem to grasp that cupcakes are brought into the office on your birthday, not brought in for you. Not that I didn’t appreciate his generosity.’
‘Are you saying he brought you a cupcake for your birthday today?’ She turns to face me, pressing her palm to the worktop, her expression almost incredulous.
‘My birthday was yesterday.’
‘And he bought you a cake?’
It looks like someone’s suffering from a little green-eyed envy. And maybe that someone wants more than a birthday cupcake from him. She’d better get in line—but not the line I’m in. The line with emoji eggplant dreams over him.
‘Hmm. It was a really tasty one. Lavender and lemon.’ With a tiny sigh, I bring the spoon to my mouth as though in blissful memory of eating the thing and succeed in burning my tongue, not that I’d let her know.
‘Huh.’ As I take a sip of my scalding tea, her eyes flick over me as though I’m being re-evaluated somehow. ‘I thought you had a boyfriend.’
After almost choking on my next sip, I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod over the rim.
‘We’re all looking forward to meeting him.’ She folds her arms again, adding a little jut of her chin this time. ‘It’s just a shame you’re not going to be able to introduce him to Archie. He’s not going,’ she adds with a flick of her hair and the suggestion of one who knows the movements of one Archer Powell, esq. ‘Weddings aren’t really his scene.’
Probably in the same way that the devil isn’t allowed into churches, I suppose.
‘For someone with a boyfriend, you seemed to be very pally with him in your office earlier on.’
My office is a sore point for a number of people who work here. While not quite on par with Google HQ, E11even is the kind of modern office that has designated thinking spaces, meeting pods that are basically glass-blocked igloos, and a games space with ping-pong tables and 80s-style arcade games. The company ethos includes words like ‘collaboration’ and ‘community’ and ‘work as a fun and social experience’, which are all basically ways of saying only the chosen few get an office. And along with the bigwigs on the executive floor, I am by virtue inheriting my old boss’s job, one of those chosen few. And this seems to upset a number of people. Allison included.
‘I’m not sure getting pally is an accurate description of what we were doing.’ I raise my gaze and give her the Heather version of: bitch, you crazy!
‘A word to the wise,’ she murmurs, straightening the placket of her shirt over her amply augmented chest. ‘The attentions of Archie Powell, though hard to resist, are a fickle thing. I wouldn’t like you to read too much into it him throwing a little flirtation your way. Between you and me, I think he’s got his sights set a little higher.’ She points at the kitchen ceiling.
He’s probably got his sights on being God. It figures.
‘I saw him getting all flirty with Clara. You know, old Lambeth’s daughter. She was here doing her placement from uni?’
Interesting. It looks like he might’ve been busted by more than me.
‘Oh, yes. I know who you’re talking about. But you know, I think she’d be far too astute to be interested in him. From what I hear, she’s incredibly focussed. She might be the boss someday, mightn’t she?’ It’s almost handy that he fed me that line earlier. Handy for him, maybe. I suppose in a way I’m helping perpetuate his story.
Oh, there’s a thought . . .
‘The thing is, Archer is so open and friendly, some women think he’s hitting on them when he’s just being nice.’ And you know that from experience, Allison, do you? ‘A lesser man would probably let the attention go to his head.’
Oh, I think the attention still goes to his head. His little head. The one that most likely does all his thinking.
‘That’s so nice of you to worry about others like that, Allison.’ I almost choke on my insincerity, and I don’t even have an expense form in my hand! ‘And while I can’t speak for Clara, I can tell you it takes more than a pretty face to dazzle me.’ Even one who’s personality makes my blood pressure spike. ‘But it was good to catch up.’
As good as catching up with Ebola.
Archer Powell has worked for E11even for months, and our paths have barely crossed. We’ve sat in on some of the same meetings, but we’ve barely spoken. Yet since last night, it’s like he’s taken over. We’ve argued and sniped, I’ve been warned off falling for him, and then I’ve had a rather intimate dream featuring him. A dream that wasn’t hazy and indistinct, as my dreams usually are, but very real. At least as real as the racing heart it left me with along with the unsettling sense that I’m somehow unfulfilled.
Why would I dream about him? I break my Kit Kat in half, and as I begin to nibble the chocolate from the tip, I wiggle my mouse to bring my laptop to life before I type:
What makes us dream about having sex with—
Delete!
Then:
Why do we dream
Out of three million hits, I open a random article on the first page of results and begin to read.
Since the days of Aristotle, experts have been looking into the meaning of dreams.
I can’t say I ever have.
But it's not an exact science. Much like the weird and wonderful variety of dreams, there are also many schools of thought in the thinking and studying of dreams.
Some people must have way too much time on their hands.
No one can truly say they have the right answer, but today’s leading experts in the field have offered assumptions—their best guesses, as it were—on the meaning behind specific dreams.
That’s not really what I asked, but hey ho.
George Mallard, a licensed psychotherapist and dream analyst—a quack title if I ever heard one— believes dreams play a substantial role in our lives. Many therapists believe that dreams are compensatory—
Now, that I can believe. It’s not like there’s an abundance of sex going on in my life right now.
—and that dreams are not random or meaningless but have a purpose, which is to bring that from the unconscious into consciousness. In fact—
