Fallen Angel - A Short Story

by Jayne Lockwood

  *****

  ‘We can only do this once,’ Thedriel whispered in her ear. Rachel was warm and safe in his arms, her head resting against his broad chest, his great wings curved protectively around them both. Even so, she was trembling with adrenalin and fear as they stood barefoot at the very pinnacle of the Shard, gazing at the city lights spread before them. The Thames wound like a black silk ribbon, shot through with tiny reflections of abstract colour. Rachel shivered, dreading the moment when Thedriel would let go of the mast and they would fall for one stomach-dropping moment before his wings caught the wind and they would soar silently through the night.

  She felt his lips brush her hair. To him, flying was as natural as breathing. This was his gift to her, to apologise for the way he had engineered her life so far. She had been angry with him. The divorce, the painful dating rituals, the humiliation of rejection could all have been avoided had he made himself known to her sooner. But angels have duties. Angels cannot choose their destinies. He had to wait until the elders lost patience with his obsession with the human girl. Eventually they had, which was why he was there, holding her in his arms, taking her on the last flight he would ever make.

  Nobody else has ever done this, Rachel thought, as she found the courage to spread her arms wide and trust him to hold her firmly round the waist to stop her from falling. They swooped over London and out over the sea, the moon throwing a sparkling path across the water to light their way. They flew beneath the looming shadow of the Seven Sisters, over dark fields and the ever-shifting ribbon of cars on the motorways. She did not want it to stop. She wanted to be safe in his arms for ever, to not go back to no job, no life, no romance. She cried a little, knowing she would never feel this way again, and he held her closer, as if realising the train of her thoughts.

  ‘No,’ she gasped, as he landed lightly on the black iron railings of her balcony and set her gently down. He crouched on the balcony, unable to stand on the ground.

  ‘You will be fine, Rachel,’ he said, stroking her wind-swept hair away from her face.

  She let the tears run freely down her face. ‘Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘Yes, but not like this. I’ll come back for you, I promise.’

  Rachel didn’t want to let him go, yet she did not want to behave as desperately as she felt.

  ‘I wish ...,’ she began, but he stopped her.

  ‘Wishes are for children.’ He drew her into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top her head. ‘I love you. Just remember that.’

  She woke alone the next morning, not remembering him leaving or the act of going to bed. She just remembered the most fantastic, amazing dream, but it had not been a dream. She really had stood at the top of the Shard, and followed the moon’s path across the sea to the great cliffs of Dover. In the mirror, her reflection was that of a woman who had lived and loved and was content, but she was not content inside.

  For the next two weeks she had the dream she had experienced before, of him lying next to her, suckling from her, and the unfulfilled arousal that came with waking alone. As time passed she came to believe that what she had experienced was something precious but fleeting, a fantasy that for one brief moment in time had become real, and to wish for any more was foolish. Even so, she did not light the Christmas tree, as the softly sparkling white lights reminded her of him, and her preparations for Christmas Day were done automatically, without joy, as something obligatory that had to be tolerated for the sake of others. She intended to spend the day alone, with old movies and an M&S Chinese dinner, and pretend that she did not care that the fallen angel had abandoned her.

  The Friday before Christmas Eve was her last day of employment. At the weekend she would be unemployable, unlovable and unattractive to anyone but a man who was not actually a man, but something unattainable.

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she said crossly, turning impatiently away from the mirror. It was time to put the high heels on, the no-bullshit business suit, the silk stockings and war paint, and face whatever was coming with dignity.

  In the office, the gloom was palpable. No-one had put up Christmas decorations. There was not even the sparse LED Christmas tree in the Reception area. The receptionist looked as if she had swallowed a bag of spanners, but one could not blame her. She was just as likely to lose her job as anyone else.

  Two hours later, she sensed a frisson of tension in the air. Everyone had looked up from their workstations like wary meerkats, but apart from the hum of computers, nothing seemed to have changed.

  ‘He’s here,’ one of the men said on his way past Rachel’s desk.

  She did not need to ask who. Reid Leith’s name was hated throughout the organisation. Everyone knew he was there to give them their marching orders. No doubt he would then dine at Claridges that evening, before catching the first plane back to New York, first class of course.

  They clustered together, one of the women venturing that she had seen coffee and pastries being taken into the Boardroom. The wait was agonising.

  ‘I wish they’d just get on with it so we can all go home,’ someone said bitterly. He had three children to provide for. Rachel smiled sympathetically but did not speak. They were way past the pointless platitudes stage.

  They were called in one by one. And one by one they came out, looking slightly stunned.

  ‘They’re keeping me on,’ the receptionist said, her face suddenly lit up with a relieved smile.

  All morning it was the same. People would go in nervously, then come out smiling, but everyone who was left was nervous. Surely they would not keep everybody? Rachel waited and waited. The mood lifted as everyone realised that their jobs were secure, and someone even sent out for party food. But still Rachel was not called in.

  In a cruel twist of fate, she was the last to be called in, but she had learned from bitter experience not to take anything for granted. The pitying glances of her work colleagues were not lost on her. Smoothing her skirt and checking her hair, she walked the gauntlet, not acknowledging the murmured good wishes, and went into the Boardroom.

  The CEO was on his own, sitting at the supertanker-sized table, writing with a heavy Mont Blanc fountain pen. He did not look up when she approached him. She sat down to wait, unwilling to hover like a recalcitrant pupil at the Headmaster’s desk. From what she could see, he was in his mid-forties, dark-haired and well-built, with an excellent taste in suits. She could just see one diamond-studded cufflink holding together a snow-white shirt cuff, and an understated Breitling watch on his slender wrist.

  Whatever he was writing was far more important than her future, and she could feel her annoyance growing. In the end, her patience snapped.

  ‘Well, do you want me to work for you or not, you arrogant, rude bastard?’

  He looked up then, and her heart did a back flip.

  ‘I was looking more for a partnership,’ Reid Leith said, and smiled at her with eyes as green as brilliant-cut emeralds. ‘Hello Rachel. Welcome to my world.’