The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  She ponders it for a minute. ‘See, while I have no doubt people know you by name, I’m certain it won’t be the same for me.’

  ‘Heather, babe. You’ve got to be shitting me.’ Then, like Archimedes himself, I have a eureka moment. ‘You know what? I think I’ve just fitted a key puzzle piece.’

  ‘Now you’re talking in riddles, too.’

  ‘No. Come with me.’ I take her hand, leading her to the side of the church where we’ll be out of sight, where I can reveal my revelation. Heather isn’t the stuck-up bitch the people at work think she is. They’re under the impression that she has a very high opinion of herself, that she doesn’t talk or engage because she’s placed herself above them, when it’s become crystal clear that her nose in the air attitude stems from the exact opposite; a lack of self-belief.

  ‘You don’t ignore people on purpose, you just have difficulty being social.’ I lean back against the chapel wall, bending my knee and pressing the soul of my shoe against it, too. ‘You have social anxiety, I think.’

  Despite my nonchalant posture, I’m enthusiastic about the discovery. Meanwhile, Heather is not. Not judging by the way she’s glaring at me.

  ‘I swear to God, Archer, if you tell anyone this, I’ll cut your balls off. I spent my life being labelled and told I’m weird, and I refuse to be defined by—’

  ‘I’m not defining you. I’m trying to understand.’

  ‘I have ADHD,’ she hisses, ‘and no, that doesn’t mean I should be running around the place like I’m off my head on amphetamines.’ A sudden breeze whips between us, it makes the strands of her hair twist and twirl furiously in the air. ‘Yes, I have difficulty socially.’ She bats angrily at the wayward red strands, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Sometimes the smallest interactions feel very, very fraught. Eye contact is hard, and I worry so much about what people are thinking that I miss social cues, which makes me even more anxious. It’s like a vicious circle with no bloody end! I’ve reached the stage where I’d really prefer not to speak to anyone I don’t know.’

  ‘How do you manage to do your job?’

  ‘Because my contact with companies is mostly over email. I pull the proposals together, but someone else presents it to the clients. I rarely have to get involved in face-to-face meetings that aren’t in-house.’

  ‘But you spoke to me that night at The Swan.’

  ‘No, you spoke to me. And I was more relaxed because I’d had a few drinks. It takes the edge off my fear, but it doesn’t make the problem go away. And pouring vodka on my cornflakes to get through the day seems like a very slippery kind of slope. If you’ll remember, I was pretty nasty to you the next day, though I probably also meant to be,’ she adds mulishly.

  Despite her admission, something uncomfortable twists in my gut. Something that makes me want to brush away those wild strands and take her in my arms. I want to give her the kind of hug that’s fortifying and reassuring. The kind of hug that would probably earn me an elbow in the ribs at the very least. At worst, an end to the day, because I realise I want to be here. I want to spend the day with her and make her laugh and relax, and despite the pretext that has me here, I want her to feel like she wants me here. I’d turned up today determined to pay her back for her underhanded ways. Suddenly, that’s not so important anymore. That’s not to say I’m going to give up all my fun.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be social; it’s that I just find it so difficult. I come off as rude because I’m often so overcome with fear that I’m blunt in the extreme. And I worry all the time that people will think I’m boring or disgusting or disgustingly boring.’

  ‘Nobody thinks that. Seriously.’

  ‘You can’t know.’

  ‘Okay, true I can’t know the thoughts of everyone, but nobody at E11even thinks anything like that.’ Doubt puckers her brow, her grey eyes flashing with defiance.

  ‘How could you possibly know?’

  Despite her bold-toned delivery, there’s an underlying vulnerability I can see now.

  How could I know? Because people think she’s a bitch, and I can’t tell her that—I just can’t. It’s hardly an antidote to her self-loathing, admitting that people take her standoffishness as bitchiness, as some sort of superiority complex. It would only hurt her more. She deserves better than what they think of her, better than what she thinks of herself.

  I down the remains of my champagne and push away from the wall as I’m struck by a sudden thought.

  ‘You’re reading it wrong.’ I balance my empty flute on the top of a gravestone. Sorry, George Stoker, son of Roger, whose mortal remains lie under my glass. I can’t tell whether the look she’s giving me implies I think she’s stupid, or the other way around. Probably the other way around.

  ‘Earlier, in the hotel, when we stopped on the stairs and got sidetracked conversationally or dazzled by Baz’s taste in dapper hats anyway, what I meant to say was you’re wrong about Haydn. He’s not gay.’

  ‘His beard says otherwise,’ she replies snarkily. ‘And his taste in workwear hardly screams straight. But mostly he just looks at me as though he loathes me. Like my presence is offensive to him.’

  ‘You’re right, he’s a bit of a fashion victim. Jeans with cuffs and boots paired with the kind of beard the squirrels could make a holiday home in. But that whole lumbersexual look doesn’t make him gay. Neither does banging on about drinking overpriced micro brewed beer, listening to indie rock, or collecting retro comic books, and sneering at anyone who doesn’t understand his life choices with his brand of ironic superiority.’

  ‘But his beard . . .’ she splutters.

  ‘His beard doesn’t make him a bear.’ I’m pretty sure twinks aren’t his thing.

  ‘He uses beard oil. And I caught him combing it once.’

  ‘There’s no crime in a man looking after himself.’ I straighten the lapels of my Armani as though slighted

  ‘He was combing it like you would a pet. And what about his hatred!? He’s also awful to Em, too.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her association to you.’ I doubt he’s picking on anyone else.

  ‘But he’s so . . .’

  ‘He’s a temperamental fucker. A bit weird, maybe. And a hipster.’’ She’s confused gay for hipster. ‘But he’s a moody, weird hipster who has a serious hard-on for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Holy annunciation, Batgirl! That had like, extra syllables in it. But shocking, right?’

  ‘Try batshit crazy.’

  ‘I’m telling you, I’m right. I know I am. He lords it over you, yeah?’

  ‘He belittles me, he makes me anxious, and he makes me want to rip off his head!’

  ‘He’d probably enjoy that, so long as he could go out like the male black widow spider.’

  ‘Ew. And also, you’re wrong. Absolutely wrong.’

  ‘You might wish I was, but there’s a reason he treats you badly. It’s not a good reason, but it definitely explains why he’s such an uptight prick around you. You’ve ignored his advances, and he’s punishing you for it.’

  ‘What advances? He’s made no advances! I’d know if he had,’ she hisses furiously, her raised finger poking my chest. ‘Because my skin would have recoiled at the thought of being near him, and it would’ve slid off my body like person slipping out of a turtleneck! Also, my clit would have retracted to my chest cavity!’

  ‘And he said there was no poetry in you. He obviously hasn’t been paying attention.’

  ‘Forget I said that.’

  ‘I will never ever be able to forget it. In fact, I think I’ll have it cross-stitched and framed. But sadly, the news doesn’t stop there.’

  She throws back the rest of her own drink, then braces her hand on the gravestone. Her head drops forward, her gaze on the dandelions covering the grassy, weed-filled grave. ‘I don’t suppose I can get you to shut up, can I?’

  ‘You could try kissing me.’ I take her deep sigh as her answer. Her for now answer, at least. ‘Yo
u think it’s going to be easy when we split up, and I reckon it will be. For me. The girls in the office will give me a wide berth, watching as I give you hangdog glances in meetings, all deep sighs and sad eyes. Plus, they’re more likely to get the whole no dating in-house out of respect thing.’ Most of them, anyway. ‘Meanwhile, it won’t be the same for you.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Oh, but you will. You’ll definitely see a lot of it.’

  She tilts her head, her grey eyes flinty. ‘A lot of what?’

  ‘Consolation cock.’

  ‘Do you have to be so crass?’

  I could’ve gone with cock succour. That would’ve been so much worse.

  ‘I’m just telling you like it is,’ I reply evenly. ‘Date me and you suddenly become approachable. Dump me and you become fair game. Blokes dropping by to dazzle you as they casually drop their BMW keys on your desk. And whether you want them or not, cock shots galore on your phone.’

  10

  Heather

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘It’s not a look. It’s a smoulder.’

  We’ve moved inside, ostensibly to follow the canapés when really it was the champagne I was in need of after Archer’s revelation. Not the cock shot thing, but the possibility that I might have somehow misunderstood Haydn’s behaviour. I feel weird about the whole thing even though I’m still unconvinced.

  ‘Do you think it’s his version of pulling my pigtails?’

  ‘When I give you my best hot look, it’s not supposed to inspire you to talk about another man.’

  ‘Haydn isn’t another man. He’s a source of annoyance. A figure of loathing.’ And now also a source of confusion. ‘Well?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that antagonising you makes him less vulnerable than telling you how he feels.’ Even she doesn’t look convinced. ‘It might be his way of giving you attention without opening himself up to rejection.’

  ‘Well, his version of playground teasing is more like being tripped over so he can stomp on my head.’

  ‘Of course, the other way to look at it might be negging.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A gaming term, for dating, not Xbox. It’s where men, and by men, I mean dickheads, deliberately make negative comments as a way of emotionally manipulating a woman to undermine her confidence with the thought that it’ll somehow enhance her need for her manipulator’s approval.’

  ‘That sounds . . .’

  ‘Abhorrent?’ Archer offers. ‘Ridiculous? Stunted? Skeevy and a whole lot of other adjectives that have yet been invented. Some people will believe anything they read on the internet from so-called experts.’

  ‘Romance experts?’ My head rears back, my expression probably all what the fuck?

  ‘I wouldn’t call them dating experts. In fact, I wouldn’t call them any kind of expert.’

  ‘Because it sounds like such a winning strategy. “How did you meet Grandpa Haydn, Jammy? Well, once upon a time, I was working for him, and he called me all the names under the sun. It was love at first insult”.’

  ‘Jammy?’ Archer puts his glass to his mouth, his eyes dancing above it.

  ‘It’s what I called my grandmother. How come I’m telling you all about me and you’re managing to keep your secrets?’

  ‘Because I’m enigmatic.’

  ‘Oh, was that your smoulder again, or should you have brought your specs? I can’t really tell.’

  His lips twitch at my teasing, but he doesn’t give in. ‘Heather, you know I’m imagining peeling you out of your knickers.’

  Something hot and sweet bursts and melts inside me.

  ‘And I don’t think I’m the only one.’

  ‘Ha!’ I bark out a laugh, covering it with my hand.

  ‘You think that’s funny?’ But even he’s smiling. One of those sexy-half numbers that makes him look as though his head is full of wicked thoughts. I try to resist wondering what kind of thoughts as I continue with my stance of being both unimpressed and amused at his absurdity. ‘No, you’re just deflecting. Hiding.’

  Has it suddenly become very hot in here?

  ‘It is funny,’ I protest, ignoring how the brush of his gaze is like a million tiny fires breaking out against my skin.

  ‘Heather.’ This time, he says my name like a chastisement. ‘I know you can see it, too.’

  Oh, God, this is much harder than I’d anticipated.

  Jammy used to have this saying; take care not to be hoisted by one’s own petard. As a girl, I’d thought a petard was a tunic thing a knave might wear back in the day, and that her advice was to watch where I was walking lest I be “hoisted” by catching it on a tree branch or something. But that particular piece of clothing was a tabard, not a petard. It made sense later as I was never going to be seen dead in a tabard. Ballet wear and boots was another matter. A petard is actually a bomb, and Jammy’s advice was a warning against the fallibility of youthful choices. I may no longer be a teenager, but I still get the sense that this plan of mine could well be a bomb that’s about to go off. And I can’t afford to lose my head.

  ‘You’re wrong.’ All kinds of wrong that’s oh, so very tempting. ‘I was actually just thinking there can be nothing sexy about being peeled out of underwear made from the same fabric as a trampoline. Underwear that’s currently threatening to cut off my circulation.’ With a pained glance, I squirm to support my imaginary discomfort. ‘And when I say peeled, I actually mean yanked, heaved, and pulled. Basically the process of how I got them on.’

  ‘You’re not wearing underwear like that.’ He still looks amused as he glances away, his eyes scanning the room.

  ‘Shows what you know. Even skinny girls have bits they want to strap in. Bits that jiggle when they really shouldn’t. Lumps and bumps that they want to hide. You know how the saying goes; little pickers wear big knickers.’

  ‘Despite being a sugar fiend, I think you’ll find you are in fact slender, not skinny.’

  ‘And you’re being kind. Should I be suspicious?’

  With his champagne glass poised at his lips and his face wearing the usual mixture of insouciance and mild amusement, I prepare myself for another quip.

  ‘You know, your brand of self-deprecation must be exhausting. You’re neither ginger nor skinny, and you know that half the women in this room would kill to look like you right now, so give it up.’

  I grit my teeth, preventing both the spike of tears and a stinging reply. I’m not fishing for compliments because I dislike receiving compliments. Mostly, I feel they aren’t true, and people are just trying to be nice. And it’s not as though I’ve had lots of practice receiving accolades from the opposite sex. It’s usually my friends or my parents who say nice things. The people who love me and want to lift me up. I’ve never had a man wax lyrical about my hair or my skin, and not once have I been told I’m beautiful by a man not related to me by blood. But let’s face it, that’s not what Archer said anyway.

  I take a deep swallow of my champagne, my gaze sliding unseeingly over the faces on the other side of the room.

  ‘Besides,’ he says, pulling my attention but not my gaze. ‘I know you’re not wearing big knickers because I’ve already seen your underwear today.’

  I turn to him sharply, but he isn’t finished making me uncomfortable yet.

  ‘Or should I say I saw the brevity of your briefs. Don’t looks so shocked; I zipped you up, remember? If you were wearing the type of knickers you claim to be, they’d have been halfway up your back. As it was, there was very little to be seen. A tiny hint of blue lace, maybe?’

  ‘You are not a gentleman.’ My retort comes with no little chagrin—the bastard just set me up.

  ‘And thank God for that.’ His glass suddenly clinks against mine. ‘You didn’t think I really was, did you?’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Agreed. What’s the opposite of gentleman, do you think?’

  ‘You,’ I answer sickly swe
et. ‘Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘No, I mean what’s the proper name for it? C’mon on, there must be one.’

  ‘Knob head?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s it even if it isn’t very complimentary.’

  I think the word is cad. Maybe rogue or scoundrel. But I don’t think Archer can be described as any of those. He’s far too, dare I say it, kind. Maybe he wouldn’t like to hear me say so. Or maybe he would? I haven’t paid him a lot of compliments—just lots of insults—so it’s kind of hard to tell. Yes, he’s annoying and a bit cocky and a little full of himself, but he’s also incredibly astute, sharp witted, and God, he makes me laugh. He puts me at ease, and that isn’t easy. In fact, the only thing wrong with him is that, by his own admission, he’s a bit of a slut. A ladies’ man. A tart with a heart?

  Is Archer Powell the opposite of a gentleman?

  Or is he exactly that with a couple of flaws?

  11

  Archer

  ‘How wild are your wild mushrooms?’

  ‘Pretty wild.’ I tilt the risotto dish a little in Heather’s direction. ‘Look, they’re so wild they’re having a knockdown fight on the dish.’

  ‘Sorry. Again.’ She shoots me an uncomfortable smile. I think I preferred it when she glared at me like I’d personally offered to arrange a phone full of dick pics.

  I still could if she wanted.

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry. This is delicious.’ I shovel another glutinous forkful into my mouth.

  ‘I shouldn’t have ordered vegetarian. I shouldn’t have assumed.’ Assumed that her yet-to-be-blackmailed-at-that-point date would be a red-blooded, meat-eating carnivore? I wonder who was option two? Ah. Me. I’m option two, the original option being her ex. A hemp-wearing, chickpea-swilling herbivore probably. My expression must be as sour as my thoughts as Heather apologises again.

  ‘Heather, look, it’s fine. I have obviously lived but half a life, ’cause let me tell you once more, this risotto is great.’