A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger

by Lucy Robinson

  It sounded like Gilly, 29, from Brooklyn, had a similar talent for philanthropic meddling. I liked the sound of Gilly.

  I resumed reading and started to chuckle. Yep. She knew the formula. Funny, a tiny bit cheeky and playfully ironic.

  Saturday would be great, Gilly had written, on behalf of Sarah from North Arlington. But I don’t do midday dates. If you saw me in daylight my ethereal beauty would blind you and you’d fall into the Hudson. How about we meet early evening instead?

  I nodded approvingly. Could do with a bit more warmth but it was definitely better than anything that poor Sarah from North Arlington would have written. Poor Sarah from North Arlington agreed: Having a ghost-writer is amazing, she enthused. I don’t know what to say to ANYONE online. I used to rant about my ex-husband when men emailed me … This mystery girl saved my life!

  Cyber Love Assistants CEO Steve Sampson is keen to point out that while the nature of his business might be light-hearted, its success is not to be laughed at. ‘We currently have over one hundred ghost-writers on our books,’ he said, ‘providing service for more than four thousand would-be daters. At present we’re only operating in the US but you don’t have to be American to need help. I’m hoping to take the business into the UK in the next couple of years.’

  I sat back. ‘No, you’re not,’ I said out loud. ‘I am.’

  Oh, are you now? I asked myself, laughing. It had been a reflexive response but, in truth, I rather liked the sound of it.

  I would never dream of charging my hapless friends for ghost-writing services. After all, written banter came more easily to me than the thunderous passing of wind came to Sam. But throw in a business plan and some nifty little ideas … a bit of clever creativity, then a deadly publicity campaign … There was a challenge I’d relish. Business Charley sat up hungrily. There was something a little bit annoying about Steve Sampson from Boston: I quite liked the idea of taking him on.

  My phone beeped in my handbag and I dug it out, sighing. Appealing as the idea was, it was no more than a pipe dream. Work was busier than ever and my deputy, Margot, had recently abandoned any pretence that she wasn’t after my job. I had to guard my position as if my life depended on it: extra-curriculars, however appealing, were completely out of the question until further notice.

  Then I looked at my phone and forgot instantly about Margot.

  Because the person who had texted me was John. I felt an explosion of excitement go off somewhere in my reproductive system. John MacAllister? On a Saturday? Lambert. Are you in town this weekend? I want to take you to dinner tomorrow please. 8 pm, The Tower. Jx.

  J with a kiss? J WITH A KISS? Steady on, Charley, I told myself. Keep it real. ‘HAILEY!’ I yelled, keeping it anything but real. Hailey was in a cheesy embrace with Matty, looking out towards the Castle. I said, keep it real, Charley. ‘HAILEEEEEEEEEEE!’ I screamed, at the top of my lungs, getting up and running down the slope towards the picnickers. Finally! Finally! John and I were going on a date! A WEEKEND DATE! The significance of this invitation could not be overstated.

  Matty continued to whisper cheesy Wotsits into Hailey’s ear and I picked up speed.

  My downward velocity might have been safe had I been wearing my running shoes; in my strappy sandals it was nothing of the sort. As I opened my mouth to yell, ‘HAILEY!’ again, my woefully inadequate leather sole hit a flat stone and my leg shot forward, wrenching me into an agonizing splits position. In slow motion I felt myself veer off sideways in mid-air, my skirt flying up round my head. As I came in to land on some far more serious-looking rocks I started planning emergency cover for the picnic so that Sam wasn’t left without a hostess.

  And then my head hit the ground, forcing my brain to stop whirring for probably the first time in thirty-two years.

  Chapter Two

  Confused and more than a little surprised, I closed my eyes, then reopened one in a subtle squint. Good God. It was as I’d thought. John MacAllister was sitting on my bed.

  I was too shocked to be happy, let alone aroused. This situation – which I’d fantasized over for seven years – was far too implausible to be real.

  Was I daydreaming?

  After a brief mental consideration I stopped squinting and opened both eyes fully. If John really was sitting on my bed I’d be quite mad to waste the opportunity.

  John MacAllister really was sitting on my bed. He was tapping abstractedly at his BlackBerry and not looking in my direction. But he was sitting on my bed. What the hell was going on?

  I backtracked furiously.

  Somewhere at the edge of my mind I had a sense that John and I were going on a date. Had it already happened, perhaps? Was I waking up, hung-over, after a night of wild and glorious sex? I bloody well hoped not. It would be devastating beyond measure to have slept with John MacAllister after all these years and be unable to remember it.

  A cursory look down at myself revealed that we had not had sex. For there, where I’d hoped to see a pair of perky nipples and some crotchless pants (although I’d never owned any), was a long blue nightie and one of those holey yellow blankets with the wide polyester hems. My heart sank. This was not a post-coital set-up.

  I concentrated hard, trying to work out what was going on. It was a confusing state of affairs, that was for sure. I no more owned long blue nighties and yellow blankets than I did crotchless knickers. And to add to the confusion, John seemed to be holding my foot, not in a blissful, post-coital sort of way, but rather in a … Oh, no. Oh, please, NO. In a giant, broken-leg-in-plaster-with-a-cute-foot-poking-out-of-it sort of a way.

  There was a plastic identity tag on my wrist. A line of something going into my forearm under a neat white plaster. The sound of hushed conversations, flabby snoring, quiet beeping. Searing pain in my throat, terrible pain everywhere south of my belly-button, and the deadening, horrible certainty that I was in hospital.

  A grey curtain enclosed John and me in a cubicle of doom; he continued to tap away on his BlackBerry.

  I closed my eyes, devastated. What on earth had happened? Had I been hit by a bus during our date? Gone down drunk?

  No, my head told me resignedly, as the events of the last twenty-four hours came limping back in. No, it did not happen during your date with John. Because there was no date with John. You ruined any chance of that happening by hurling yourself down the hill like a great big six-foot ELEPHANT.

  Great work, moron.

  I despaired silently under my yellow polyester blanket. Why had John chosen this – this dog turd of all the moments in my life – to sit on my bed?

  When I opened my eyes again, he was looking at me with a smile that rendered me closer to crying than I had been in years. I swallowed hard. Charley Lambert was not a crier.

  ‘Well well well,’ he said. ‘Hello, sleepy.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I replied sadly.

  John snorted, pushing his BlackBerry into a leather pouch. His bright, X-ray eyes bored merrily into mine. ‘Charlotte Lambert. That is not the kind of talk I was looking for!’

  ‘Sorry. But I … I …’ I bit my lip. Get a grip, lame-arse, I ordered myself. If you cry in front of him it’ll all be over.

  From the first day I’d met John it had been clear that the armour of outlandish toughness that I donned at work was a major factor in his feelings for me. Now I unleashed the full force of my iron will on my tears. Stand down, I told them sternly.

  Watching this furious battle take place in my face, John smiled. And then did something extraordinary. He took my hand. John MacAllister took my hand. I felt suddenly dizzy. My gloriously attractive, powerful and downright sexual boss – one of the only three men in Edinburgh tall enough to court me – was sitting on my bed holding my hand. I fizzed all over, suddenly helpless, broken leg an irrelevance.

  John had been driving me insane from the moment he walked into the communications office at Salutech Pharmaceutical Holdings seven years ago – 26 June 2005, to be precise – the day I’d set up shop at the tiny t
emp’s desk in the corner.

  I had been embarrassingly full of it. Twenty-five years old, the recently departed star of Hibernian FC’s press and marketing office, and dating a handsome man named Dr Nathan Gillies. I was bristling with enthusiasm for my (extremely) important new role as deputy communications officer at Salutech: one of the biggest pharmaceutical multinationals in the world, never mind Scotland. I radiated misplaced professional confidence like Malcolm the Labrador radiated bad smells when he needed to go for a walk. I was ready to be a Big Shot.

  On my arrival at Salutech’s vast, space-hangar-like premises on the A1 near Newcraighall, it had become immediately clear that I was not there to be a Big Shot. Or even a small shot. I was there solely to help the Big Shots above me, or to suck a lot of cocks, as Hailey helpfully put it. Within three hours I knew that leaving my last job at Hibernian FC had been a mistake. My new boss, Angélique, was small, evil and Canadian, and her boss, the director of communications, was a man whose refusal to engage with me was so absolute that I was forced to go to the toilet to check that I did actually exist.

  Looking in the mirror, I was able to confirm that I did. But only just. Suddenly Big Guns Lambert resembled a frightened child. In fact, the image in the mirror reminded me strongly of a photo of eleven-year-old me, minutes before curtain up on the East Linton Primary School’s production of The Wizard of Oz. I was playing the Tin Man, feigning confidence, oozing terror. Now, fourteen years later, a similarly terrified girl stared back at me from the mirror. A whitehead was emerging next to her right eyebrow (a whitehead? Who, aged twenty-five had whiteheads?) and her ‘natty’ cerise fitted blouse clashed horribly with her not-so-natty but equally cerise face.

  Why on earth had I left Hibs? Where I laughed every day, where I knew everyone, where my best bloody friend worked?

  Hailey. I needed Hailey. I hit speed dial two and tried not to faint with fear.

  ‘All right, Chas. What gives?’ Hailey, wheezy and businesslike, accompanied by the clatter of plates and the yell of sweaty chefs. I felt my heart wrench.

  ‘Well, in short, I hate my new job, my boss is evil, and the comms director won’t even look at me,’ I said. I contemplated squeezing the whitehead but decided against it.

  ‘Have you actually tried saying hello to him?’ Hailey asked. ‘Oi! Paul! Put her down! You’ve got five minutes to finish plating up two hundred covers,’ she yelled. A distant shriek and the sound of a swearing chef came down the line. Hailey was the operations manager at the Hibs Banqueting Centre and spent a lot of time shouting at people. When I had worked there in the public relations office, a good hundred metres down the second-floor corridor, I could hear her as clearly as if she was yelling into my ear.

  I grinned briefly. ‘Oh, Hailey, I miss that place. I miss those dirty chefs. I miss you. Do you think if I just stormed Salutech security they’d be able to sue me for defection?’

  ‘Get a fucking grip.’ She chuckled. I liked calling Hailey for operational advice. She didn’t fuck around. ‘Charley, I’m not listening to this. You left us here to go and do your big posh pharmaceuticals job because you’re destined for big things. Huge things. It’s your first day. What were you expecting?’

  I’d thought about this briefly. It was true. This new job was a big deal; a huge coup for someone my age in a company the size of Salutech. ‘It’s not easy to do big things when no one will talk to you,’ I said stubbornly.

  I heard Hailey light a completely illegal cigarette, pulling the phone over to the window that overlooked the cemetery. ‘Ahmad! What the fuck? MOVE!’ she yelled. ‘Right, Chas. As I said, it’s your first day. Not even you can win everyone over in three hours, you dick. Second, you’re well fit. Useful in this sort of situation. Is there anyone you can flirt with?’

  I stood up straight and in so doing set off a hand-drier. ‘Hailey Bresner,’ I shouted. ‘I got this job because of my abilities, not my sex appeal. I’m not here to make eyes at my boss! I’m here to bring in new ideas, implement new strategy and help strengthen Salutech’s external relations.’ The hand-drier stopped and I found myself shouting into an echoey toilet.

  There was a brief pause and then Hailey giggled. ‘Exactly,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, starting to smile. ‘Oh, right. Yes. Thank you, Hails.’

  ‘No worries. RORY! WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS AFTER HANDLING YOUR DICK, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Charley, my love, you have a mountain-scaling sense of can-do. This is a walk in the park for you!’

  I liked that. Mountain-scaling sense of can-do. ‘Thanks, Big Tits.’

  ‘OK, Chas, much as I’d like to stay blowing smoke up your arse, I’ve got two hundred covers coming in shortly for the Lord Provost’s birthday lunch. You can do it!’

  ‘Thanks, Hails. I miss you.’ I sighed.

  She took a puff of her cigarette and I could hear her smiling. ‘Piss off,’ she replied, not unkindly. Then: ‘AHMAAAAAD! FOR FUCK’S FUCKING SAKE!’

  The line went dead.

  Right, I thought, squaring up to the mirror. Time for action. I am Charley Lambert. A Scottish Amazon. The most fearless woman in the town of East Linton, in the country of Scotland, in the whole of the WORLD. I can do this! When all else failed, I repeated this mantra and it generally did the trick.

  I tucked my phone into my pocket and decided to squeeze the whitehead anyway. Leaning forward, I pressed in with two newly manicured nails and was instantly repaid with a tidy expulsion.

  ‘That is disgusting,’ said Angélique, walking in.

  I died.

  But then, ten minutes later, just as the nail marks faded away, I found myself alive. Very much alive. For into my office walked a very tall man, who looked at me once and instantly enslaved me. He had piercing dark eyes that were edged with amusement and dirtiness. He’d removed his tie – it was a warm June day – and the small triangle of visible chest, brown, sprinkled with hair and perspiring ever so slightly, finished me off. Before he even opened his mouth, I wanted to sink my face into that triangle and undo his shirt buttons with my teeth.

  ‘Hello, who are you?’ he said. His voice was deep and silky and slightly accented. His smile was more than I could handle. It was an X-ray smile. He could see everything.

  ‘Is that rude shorthand for “Hello, welcome, what’s your name?” ’ I shot back. Angélique gasped.

  The man grinned and bits of my body began to disintegrate. Brain cells began to fry, rude parts began to explode, my skin started to singe off. He chuckled languidly. The Bermuda Triangle at the top of his chest vibrated slightly and I had to look away before I got lost in it, never to be found again. ‘Hmm. You’re right, it was a bit rude. But then again, so am I …’ he added, with just enough of a pause for me to know that I had to have this man or die trying. ‘So I’ll start again. Hello, welcome. I’m John MacAllister, CEO. What’s your name?’

  Gripped, I didn’t turn a hair. ‘Hello, John MacAllister, CEO. I’m Charlotte Lambert, deputy communications officer as of this morning. I’m here to help implement the new brand PR strategy.’

  ‘She’s actually just helping me organize last year’s press cleepings,’ Angélique butted in.

  John MacAllister held up his hand and I noted the absence of a wedding ring. YES. ‘I’m sure she’s up to something more challenging than press clippings,’ he said, eyes flicking down briefly at my legs.

  Thank God for all those six a.m. runs, I thought. Thank God. ‘I hope so,’ I responded crisply. ‘I like a challenging project.’ John smiled straight at me with an unbearably knowing twinkle in his eye. All I could hear was the screech of gears changing as everything I’d thought I knew about men fell out of my bottom and I shifted into a whole new understanding of the word ‘desire’. Me and Dr Nathan Gillies were over. He might be handsome – and a doctor at that – but in the warm glow of John’s gaze I found myself suddenly able to face the truth: Dr Nathan Gillies was basically a wanker. He made constant jokes about my height and only wanted to have sex
on Wednesdays when he came off shift early. He frequently made bitchy comments about lesbians when he was around my lesbian twin sister and, worst of all, Granny Helen intensely disliked him. Which was never a good sign. ‘A self-important turnip of a man,’ she’d sniffed, after their first meeting.

  She’d approve of the man standing in front of me, though. Oh, Granny Helen would approve of this one, all right. I would finish with Dr Nathan Gillies without delay. This, this cheeky and more-than-tall-enough god standing in front of me, was what I wanted.

  ‘I’m not here to make eyes at some man,’ I’d roared, only fifteen minutes ago.

  ‘Poor little Lambert,’ John said quietly, moving a few inches further up my yellow polyester blanket.

  I stiffened suspiciously. Dirty flirting I was used to from John MacAllister; compassion and kindness I was not. Was he here to sack me? He looked down at me with a complicated expression on his face.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked timidly. Because you are all small and poorly with a broken leg and I want to sweep you up in my arms, drive you off in my Jaguar and take you to my architecturally significant house by a loch, I willed him to say. We will sit drinking single malt as the sun goes down and I will gently cut out a section of your plaster so we can make love.

  John smiled again, only this time with a plastic veneer that did not make my plaster-bound crotch tingle. It made my plaster-bound crotch contract with fear.

  ‘John? Is my leg really bad?’ I asked, trying to sound calm. ‘Are you going to make me resign?’

  Something odd flashed across his face. Then he shook his head. ‘Lambert,’ he said quietly, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Trust me when I tell you that absolutely nothing would persuade me to lose you from my team.’ He stroked my palm gently with his thumb.

  Damn him. Damn his deep, soft, silky voice. Damn those eyes. And that lovely warm caressing thumb.

  For the millionth, billionth time in the last seven years, a little lamp of hope ignited in my chest. Men in happy relationships didn’t speak to women like this unless they … They didn’t come and visit their director of comms in hospital unless they … And holding hands! That was flirting! His affair with Married Woman must be over. He wanted me.