The Couple

by Helly Acton

  At the end of the night, feeling warm and fuzzy after three bottles, Millie and June wave goodbye to Ruth at the station.

  ‘Same time next Friday, if I can get out of work early?’ June shouts, swallowing a hiccup.

  ‘I’ll check with Sam. Should be fine,’ Ruth shouts back, waving and blowing a kiss as she descends the escalator.

  June shakes her head when she’s out of sight. ‘Thirty-five years old and asking for permission to hang out with her friends. God, I feel sorry for her. Actually, do I? She got herself into this mess.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s asking for permission, is she?’ Millie replies, moving her gift bag into her left arm and linking her right with June’s. ‘I think she’s just checking they don’t have anything else on.’

  ‘But if they do, why do they have to go together? Sam has her own friends. Ruth has us. Why would Sam’s plans mean she has to change hers? God, it’s hard enough finding a space in my own calendar. My personal life hours are so precious.’ June pauses. ‘Do you honestly think she’s OK, Millie? You know her better than I do. We haven’t missed any cries for help or anything, have we? She isn’t suddenly going to appear at work with half her hair shaved off, is she?’

  ‘No!’ Millie laughs. ‘I know Ruth. And I know she’s deliriously happy in her cosy little couple bubble.’

  ‘Cosy? More like, claustrophobic. But OK. Whatever you say. Next thing you know they’ll be living together and that’ll be the last we see of her. I just can’t believe anyone would be happier in a couple.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about it,’ Millie replies. ‘It’s not like it’ll ever happen to us.’

  Two

  Millie is on the bus, with her fingers trapped between a pole and the long greasy ponytail of a man leaning against it. She shifts her fingers to make her knuckle pointy and her presence quietly known. In doing so, she catches a few of his oily strands. He winces, scratches his scalp and spins round to glare at her through even greasier glasses.

  ‘Sorry,’ Millie mumbles. She doesn’t mean it, but her auto-response is set to apologise. It’s easier than arguing. She waits until Ponytail turns round before giving the back of his scraggy head a death stare. Millie wishes she stood up for herself more often. June seems to relish confrontation. If she were here, she’d bark at Ponytail to stop hogging the pole and invest in an industrial-strength shampoo. June’s the type to shout into the bus carriage for people to squeeze up. Millie’s the type to stretch her neck, throw a pleading look and hope they have the heart to make room.

  Millie lives half an hour away from her desk. At 7.30 a.m. she shuts her front door. At 7.35 she hops on the bus. At 7.45 she hops off the bus. At 7.47 she nods hello to Harry in reception. At 7.50 she joins the canteen queue. At 7.55 she steps into the lift clutching her carry cup of decaf oat milk flat white. At 8.00 she’s in her chair and opening her emails.

  After eight years of doing this every single working morning without fail, she doesn’t expect this Monday to be any different. But it is.

  It starts when the woman behind her in the canteen queue begins talking loudly about last night’s episode of Single Me Out! The TV show is the new national obsession, where couples who want to split up attend decoupling sessions with life coach Doctor Alpha Joe, who guides them through their transition to single life. The couples live in separate flats for a month. Gradually, they see less and less of each other, and more of what life is like on their own. Millie and June have a watch party every Sunday. Last night, Ashley broke into his girlfriend Alice’s room and tried to convince her to quit the show together. The episode ended on a cliffhanger, and the question on everyone’s lips this morning is, Will she or won’t she? Millie twists her neck in the direction of the conversation. After a few distracted minutes, she realises her coffee is late, which means she is.

  ‘Timmy?’ she asks the barista. ‘Sorry to ask, is it almost ready?’

  Timmy looks at the counter and picks up a carry cup covered in old cartoon stickers.

  ‘This isn’t yours?’ he asks, looking confused.

  ‘No.’ She smiles.

  ‘Then I’m guessing that bloke over there might have yours.’ Timmy points behind her at a man with black hair, headphones and a backpack, also covered in old cartoon stickers, walking towards the lifts. ‘And I’m guessing this is his.’

  Millie takes the cartoon coffee cup and hurries towards Headphone Man, sticking her arms in between the lift doors just before they close. She hops into the lift and holds out the cup.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she pants. But the man is too focused on the notices at the back of the lift to hear her.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she says, louder, lifting her hand up to tap him on the shoulder. In that split second, he turns round and flinches, splashing his – no, her – coffee across his face.

  He shoves the headphones back onto his neck and wipes his chin with his jacket sleeve.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ Millie cries, scrambling for a tissue in her bag, doing a double take when she notices his eyes. Huge and green, framed by long, dark eyelashes so thick it looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. His skin is ivory and covered in a mist of tiny freckles, which, contrasted against his jet-black hair, make him look sort of . . . magical.

  ‘That’s all right, bach,’ he says cheerily in a broad Welsh accent, staring at her and flashing a quick smile that shows strong dimples and pointed white canines that Millie’s instantly drawn to.

  ‘I think that’s my coffee.’ She points at his hand. ‘And I think this is yours?’ She holds up his cartoon cup.

  The man, who must be Ben, stares at her in silence like he’s processing a complex calculation. After a few seconds, he darts his eyes down to his cup, then at hers in his hand.

  ‘Oh jeez, I’m an idiot, here you go!’ he cries. Definitely Welsh. Definitely Ben. ‘But it’s half gone now! Tell you what, I’ll go back down and get you another.’

  ‘No don’t, honestly, it’s fine,’ she says, checking the time on the lift panel. ‘It was my fault for being distracted in the queue.’

  ‘You could drink mine? What’s your poison?’ he asks.

  ‘Decaf oat milk flat white, no sugar,’ she says, hating herself a little.

  June always says she’s so cringed by Millie choosing to drink ‘warm, beige, mock-milk swill’, that she refuses to stand with her when she orders it.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a wild one?’ He laughs.

  ‘You should see how I take my toast!’ She leans in conspiratorially, smelling eucalyptus. ‘Just butter,’ she whispers.

  ‘Stop it!’ He chuckles. ‘Well, I’m a triple-shot black Americano with three sugars. And Marmite an inch thick.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you a mad one? So, tell me, how old were you when you started drinking pure caffeine? Five?’ she says, lifting up his cup and pointing at the stickers.

  ‘Four, actually,’ he replies. ‘It was the only way to cope with those long nights, colouring in.’

  They giggle as the lift button pings and the doors swoosh open.

  ‘You work here too?’ he asks, as they walk together towards the glass entrance doors.

  ‘I do,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’m Millie. And you might want to pop in there first.’ She points behind him to the men’s loos and then at his chin.

  He swivels on his heels. ‘Ah, I really do. And I’m Ben. Ben Evans.’

  Ben waves goodbye and walks straight into the women’s loos, still holding her coffee.

  ‘Trying to catch a fly?’ Ruth says, when she sees Millie staring at Ben.

  She and Millie are in the kitchen getting a coffee.

  Millie snaps her mouth shut.

  ‘So, first thoughts on your new desk neighbour?’ Ruth continues. ‘You look a bit shell-shocked!’

  Ben, who’s been put on the desk diagonally opposite Millie, is fidgeting with the height of his desk chair. It abruptly drops down and he disappears behind the screen.

  ‘Well, I see what you mean
about the chaos,’ Millie remarks.

  ‘He’s kind of cute, though, if you fancy clowns,’ Ruth suggests.

  ‘Does anyone fancy clowns?’ Millie asks.

  ‘There must be someone with a clown fetish,’ Ruth muses, blowing her tea. ‘It would make a great Halloween special in Slide Mag. How about it?’

  ‘No, thanks. The only thing creepier than a clown is a person with a clown fetish.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Ruth shrugs.

  Their office messenger dings on their phones and they groan in unison. Sasha has started a new company-wide thread called *Summer Par-tay*.

  @sashah:

  Good morning, Sliders! I’m delighted to announce that this year’s Summer Party theme is *drumroll*

  @sashah:

  My Secret Fetish. Can’t wait to celebrate with you all soon!

  @bene:

  Amazing! Knew my clown suit would come in handy

  Millie’s mouth falls back open.

  ‘What can I say?’ Ruth laughs. ‘My hunch is always right.’

  Bruce and Millie don’t have the easiest relationship, but they have made progress since he moved in. At first, he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her. Now, he reluctantly tolerates her. She can’t decide which dynamic she preferred. At night-time, he sits in the dark under the hall table. In the daytime, he disappears into the building’s abyss, only returning when he wants an easy feed. And, when he does, he pole dances around Millie’s legs, making meowsic, as Al had once joked, scratching his ears and snatching her hand back just in time to avoid losing a fingertip.

  When Bruce arrived on Millie’s doorstep from the rescue centre six months ago, he came with a note.

  Hi! I’m Bruce. I am part feral and I must have personal space. Please don’t touch my underbelly or I will attack. I’m happiest when I’m left alone, but my eye socket needs disinfecting once a week. Wear goggles and thick gloves to avoid injury. I’m not purring, I’m growling. Be patient with me! I hope you love me as much as I should learn to love you, once you have earned my trust!

  The note gave her mixed feelings.

  Bruce’s personal space is underneath the hall table by the front door, where he lies in wait for passing toes. Millie is surprised she still has any skin left on the tops of her feet. She didn’t expect cat parenting to be this difficult, and has to frequently remind herself why she adopted him in the first place. I didn’t do this for the gratitude, she whispered last week while wiping the blood from a fresh flesh wound. She did it to care for something. To give something back. She wanted another heart in her home. Yes, her fluffy feline flatmate is an angry little bastard, but she still loves him. He doesn’t give her compliments or attention, and that’s what she needs in a companion.

  Tonight, Millie feels restless, as she lies on the sofa with her chin on her chest, staring at Bruce from across the room. Making small movements, she reaches for her phone and opens the camera. Sensing an imminent photo, Bruce scurries further back under the hall table until he completely disappears. Millie throws her phone down next to her. Then picks it up again and starts to search.

  Unsurprisingly, Ben Evans is a popular name, but after a few dead-end clicks she finds a profile on a food blog that looks like it was designed at the dawn of the Internet. The About section has clip art and comic sans writing, written by him in the third person.

  Ben Evans is currently studying Communications at Cardiff University. When he isn’t playing word puzzles, this born-and-bred valleys boy indulges his passion for local produce and stokes the fire in his belly for regional Welsh fare. After he graduates, he will embark on a year-long giant taste test around the world. He’s already drooling at the thought of fried spiders in Cambodia, fresh witchetty grubs in Australia and the occasional McDonald’s when he’s missing The ’Diff. Subscribe to the blog if you’d like to follow his travels!

  Millie scrolls down the page. The only post he ever made was one entitled ‘Goodbye Cardiff, hello Auckland!’ with a picture of him at the airport, his backpack by his feet and a bib saying boyeatsworld.org around his neck. Millie leans forward and zooms in on a woman standing behind him with the same bib. As she does so, she accidentally likes the photo. She screams. Bruce bolts into the bedroom. After immediately unliking with shaky fingers, she stares unblinking across the room, listening to her thumping heart and wondering how possible it would be to resign from work, remove herself from the global grid and spend the rest of her days in a small cabin in Outer Mongolia.

  Three

  Something is the matter with Ruth. She barely muttered a word to Millie in the changing room this morning, and she hasn’t glanced at her once during this yoga class. Not even when Darth Vader Woman made a sound like a deflating beach ball during Savasana.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Millie asks, as they stroll in the sun along the river towards the office. ‘You seem a bit distracted.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ruth says and sighs, folding her arms tightly.

  ‘Well, that was convincing,’ Millie replies. ‘Are things OK with you and Sam?’

  Ruth frowns. ‘Why would you automatically think that something was wrong with me and Sam? I didn’t realise you were a member of the couple pity party too.’

  ‘I’m not!’ Millie cries. ‘But you usually talk about Sam non-stop. In superlatives. And you haven’t mentioned her once today, even though it was her birthday dinner last night. I was expecting to hear the whole story in painfully granular detail.’

  ‘God, am I that much of a bore?’ Ruth replies, smirking.

  ‘After your first dinner date, you described how she seasoned her food. So my answer is, yes! But it’s OK. I’m not listening half the time,’ Millie jokes.

  ‘You’re a good friend.’

  ‘Yes, I’d love a coffee.’

  Ruth sighs again. ‘I’m sorry, Mils. I’m feeling a bit defensive about our relationship at the moment. Working here isn’t helping. Plus, the chief executive orifice is being extra orifice-y right now.’

  ‘You mean the managing directum?’

  ‘I always forget the title change.’

  ‘Just keep it simple. Adrian Masterbator.’

  Adrian Master is the universally loathed founder of Slide. He has one fan in Sasha, the other senior creative on the team, who has him wrapped around her little talon and repeatedly pole-jumps over Ruth to go straight to the top.

  ‘Honestly, Mils,’ Ruth says, pausing outside the office. ‘You’re the only reason I stay here. This company is mad, and that man is maddening. I don’t even know why he’s still around! He got a massive payout when Human bought Slide. He never needs to work again.’

  ‘All we can hope for is that he retires, he stuffs up or he chokes on his own bullshit,’ Millie replies. ‘Two out of three are quite possible. Now, coffee?’

  ‘He’s like runny dog shit on a new trainer.’ Ruth stares into space. ‘All stuck in the treads.’

  ‘On second thoughts, maybe we should skip the coffee,’ Millie decides.

  ‘Nah, it’s on me,’ Ruth replies. ‘For being a twat and thinking you were coming at me about Sam. I know you aren’t like that. And you’re right, I do want to tell you all about Sam’s birthday meal, from beginning to end. It starts at the supermarket. They were out of celeriac. Total nightmare.’

  Millie groans playfully as Ruth tugs her towards reception.

  ‘Come on!’ Ruth laughs. ‘It’s gripping, I promise.’

  When Adrian leaves Slide, Ruth will take his place as managing director. And, with her reputation for award-winning work, there’s a good chance that Millie will be made chief creative officer. It’s a role she’s been dreaming of since she was a kid, when her mum started framing all her drawings and telling her she’d be an award-winning creative one day.

  The chance to land her dream job at London’s coolest company isn’t the only reason Millie stays: it’s because she knows Slide. It’s her home from home. Safe, comfortable, familiar. She loves her short commute, and how
she could do it blindfolded. Sure, it has its challenges. But Millie’s made a name for herself here, and she’s trusted. More than that, she’s respected. She’d never partake in self-promotion, but she has come up with some of Slide’s most exciting creative campaigns.

  ‘If I ever did quit Slide, it would have to be over a biggie,’ Ruth whispers to her in the lift. ‘And you know I’d drag you with me, right?’

  ‘Promise?’ Millie asks.

  ‘Pinky,’ Ruth swears.

  When the lift door opens on the canteen floor, they come face to face with Adrian and Sasha.

  ‘Morning, Ruth,’ Adrian mutters through his puffy, spitty lips as he steps into the lift before giving them a chance to exit. As usual, he ignores Millie.

  Just before the doors close, Sasha leans out and calls after them down the corridor. ‘Millie! I tweaked that creative you did for the dirty talk widget. I know it wasn’t my project, but I walked past and saw it on Skye’s screen. Just felt it was a bit tame. No offence, babes! I think you’ll love what I’ve done.’

  Ben’s already in the meeting room when Millie arrives.

  ‘Am I late?’ she asks.

  Ben puts his phone down and sits up, gesturing to her to take a seat opposite him.

  ‘Not at all, I was early. I’m terrible at timekeeping. Easily distracted,’ he explains.

  ‘What’s this?’ she says, smiling and nodding towards the stack of plain buttered toast on the table.

  ‘That, Mildred Jones, is brain food,’ he announces.

  ‘Mildred?’ she laughs. ‘Yeah, that’s not my name.’

  ‘Mil . . . dew?’ he asks.

  ‘Very funny. It’s Millabelle.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. Belle is a lot nicer than Dread when it comes to nicknames.’