The Art of Upgrading a Book Boyfriend (The Uni Files)

by Bloom, Anna

  The Art of Upgrading a Book Boyfriend

  A Uni File Short

  by

  Anna Bloom

  For my Welsh friend

  Tristan the Arse

  "Come on, Zo."

  The whining would be slightly annoying, if I didn’t have a very clear visual image of what he looked like on the other end of the phone: like a golden god that really you shouldn't say no to.

  Sadly I am going to have to. I can’t be late for publication. Again.

  "Tristan, sorry, I can't do that."

  "Zoooeeey," he whines some more, snickering a little. He knows he is laying it on thick. "Come on, it's been ages since I asked you for a favour."

  "Mm, ages," I reply with a zing of tartness in my tone. "It's been absolutely ages since last week, when I had to explain that your favourite Grandmother had died for the fourth time, and that you were going to be late for another deadline."

  I blow out a little gust of air as I twirl the cord of my phone around my finger.

  Tristan McCannon is the most outrageous ladies man you ever could meet. Ladies man does not even cover it; he is walking talking testosterone.

  Well at least he was, until last year, when he met some girl at his sisters University and became a transformed man.

  Transformed, but still unable to get his assignments in on time. In fact they are even later now, and sometimes, well sometimes, they don't turn up at all. I've been told that he’s on his last warning. Actually, I think his last warning may have been months ago, but for some reason best known to myself, I always end up covering for his sorry arse. It's a professional misdemeanour, but I do it all the same.

  I haven’t met her; the one that stole his heart and challenged his already slack time keeping, but I have heard that she looks like a super model.

  It kind of figures. Blue eyed, blonde haired, sexy, ladies-man catches a supermodel of his own. While little old me is nowhere near bagging a male supermodel for keeps, and instead spends my time covering up for the only one that I know.

  "Tristan, you really are a complete arse."

  He chuckles a little. "I know, but listen this will be worth waiting for, and you never know, you may get something out of it in the long run. And I don't mean a case of wine."

  It's my turn to chuckle. Tristan may be an arse, but he always makes sure to send me a case of wine after every one of his deadline failures. This has been an on-going arrangement since we went out for a corporate do one night and he found out I had a penchant for rosé.

  The only reason he found out was because I threw up all over his shiny designer shoes. He had to try and get me home in a black cab, whilst I decided to perform a solo rendition of a college reunion playlist.

  Sighing dramatically I say, "Okay. I can hold off until nine Monday morning, but if I get the sack, you are completely accountable for my rent and phone bills until I find new employment."

  "Yes!" He gives a little whoop which I am not expecting at all.

  Usually he is as cool as a cucumber, so that little "Yes," speaks volumes.

  "What's going on, Tristan?"

  "Nothing, what makes you say that?"

  Then it twigs, call it intuition, call it anything you like. "Oh my god, you’re not writing this are you?"

  "Not exactly, now, Zoe, don't freak out. It’s going to be great, and I know she can do it."

  Oh fuck. He is going to get his supermodel strumpet to write something.

  "Who is writing, Tristan?"

  "My Sis," he blurts out before hanging up the phone before I can say anything back.

  Oh dear.

  I don't know much about Delilah McCannon, apart from what my best friend Annabelle has told me. Delilah, or Lilah as she likes to be called, used to work at an investment bank in Canary Wharf, until she went down in urban legend by walking out the door for a cigarette break, and never went back.

  My friend, Annabelle, worked with her for a short time. Actually I think Annabelle got her job eventually, well technically, she got more than her job. She also managed to snatch her ex fiancé after Lilah dumped him for some singer guy.

  It was all a bit messy at the time, and the facts are lost under wads of rumour and hear-say.

  The question is: how on earth am I going to stall the publication of this month until Monday?

  I am going to get the sack this time for sure.

  It had better be worth it.

  The Job

  I don't really know how I ended up sitting at this desk. But, I have a very sneaky feeling I must have been a rather naughty person in a previous life.

  I moved to the big smoke wanting to make a career for myself. I wanted to work with books. Anything to do with books. I love them, I breathe them, and well, I live my life to them. Not that I tell many people this fact.

  Now I am in my mid-twenties, and it is an area of major concern to my extensive family of aunts and cousins that I don't have a boyfriend. I would never admit to anyone that I don't have time for a real life boyfriend because I have far too many book boyfriends on the go. Who would want a real one anyway? All of my book boyfriends are shit hot with abs to die for, and even the bad boys come right in the end.

  Nope, I have no desire for a real boyfriend at all, it’s all far too messy and complicated for me.

  Sadly, my dream of working with books has taken slightly longer to achieve than I initially thought. Oh yes I work for a publishing house, quite a good one actually. Unfortunately, they publish dead boring magazines.

  The target readership falls into two categories: fat bald men with too much money to invest. Or, fat housewives with too much money to spend.

  The only good bit about my job is that I get paid at the end of the month.

  That’s about it.

  Depressing.

  It would be better if in the last five years I had climbed the corporate ladder a little, but all I have managed is one rung from receptionist to the Editor's Assistant's assistant.

  Sorry. Editor in Chiefs, Assistant's, assistant.

  This doesn’t sound too bad, but last night the Editor in Chief and her Assistant were at a film premiere. There is a picture of them standing next to Brad Shit on the company web page. While they were out schmoozing the A-List, I was at the office doing all their work.

  So yeah, it is not that great either.

  Theresa, is the mega bitch otherwise known as the Editor in Chief, and Fiona is her Assistant.

  Theresa is a heartless cow, who spends her time trying to find as many faults as possible in every person that she meets. She is such a dominating bitch. I’ve come to the conclusion that she is over-compensating for being a sub in the bedroom, to her bald fat husband. And yes I may have read far too many "Romance" novels to come to that conclusion. It’s a visual image I try to keep at bay.

  Fiona lives her life with the sole purpose to be a bitch to me, and to flirt with as many famous people as she can. Thankfully she is on holiday for a few days. I’m hazy on the details. All I know is Theresa Mega Bitch came storming out of her office on Monday, and announced that Fiona was on emergency leave. The office rumour mill is grinding out a story that supposedly she and her football playing boyfriend are having issues, and that she needs to 'have time to re-prioritise her life commitments,' or some complete shit like that.

  More like, he realised she is a complete celebrity Ho-Bag, and has dumped her ass.

  Good.

  Not that I am bitter or anything.

  I may be having some time off myself soon, if Tristan lets me down, and I don't get the digital edition out on time. Everything is digital these days. What I want
to know is what happened to the good old days of paper, ink and the smell of musty books with covers created to be remembered.

  If I worked next door, at the 'real' publishers who print actual books, I reckon I could convince them to go old school and give the people what they want. Pulped trees. Okay maybe people no longer know what they want but I am sure I could convince them with the right book. I just need to find it.

  Lunch

  Thank goodness for that. It’s lunch time and I can stop staring at my computer and sharpening pencils.

  I’ve had two clear objectives for this morning:

  · Find an alternative article for when Tristan lets me down.

  · Work out a way to break the server so I can’t be blamed for not going to press on time.

  I have failed at both of these. It is an enormous shit.

  I reckon I will pop out for a quick bite to eat and a blast of rejuvenating London fresh air, and then I will come up with two suitable fixes by the end of the day.

  It’s Friday for goodness sake. I don't want to be worrying about this all weekend. I have far more exciting things to do. Last night I started the most amazing book, about a cowboy who has tattoos all over his body. Each tattoo tells the story of how he ended up in this one girl’s bed; the girl.

  I need to find out what happened for him to get there. It's driving me mad not knowing.

  Outside it is blustery and cold, and my walk to clear the old grey matter quickly loses its appeal. As does the healthy salad I was planning for lunch. I’ve been fighting a battle with the zip on my skirt all morning and it had inspired me to have a lovely garden salad for lunch. The wind has put me in a mood for something far stodgier and preferably involving pepperoni. There is an amazing Deli just down the side of Fleet Street, it’s always packed, but I reckon I have timed it right and should be hit the half twelve lull, spot on.

  I do. It’s perfect.

  The place is full of steam and delicious scents which makes me sure I definitely don’t want a salad. Sod the skirt zip.

  Excellent.

  Now what to have?

  Then I see it. The chicken escallop. Oooh now that would be nice on white with some crispy bacon.

  "Hey, I'll have the escallop please with bacon on white," I say at the exact same time as the person next to me.

  There is only one escallop left. This could get nasty.

  I turn to appraise the would-be chicken thief.

  Appraise is the right word. I look up until my neck is at an uncomfortable angle and find a pair of dark eyes evaluating me with steely chicken thieving determination. The eyes, which are on the edge of black, are surrounded by lush dark lashes and positioned above a straight nose and a wide mouth on the upturn of a smile. A lazy smile, which teases at the corner of his lips.

  "I think I said it first," says Mr. Brown Eyes.

  "Uh, no I distinctly think I said it first," I respond.

  I turn expectantly to Andre, the owner of the deli, behind the counter. I come here nearly every lunch, this should swing the decision in my favour. Andre is well aware that this is my favourite sandwich because I actually cried once when they had run out – what can I say? I suffer from bad PMT.

  Andre looks between us and I shift my body so I can view my chicken adversary a little better without obviously staring.

  He is tall, although I have already ascertained this with my crook neck. He is also trim and athletic with a skinny-fit pink shirt tucked into charcoal trousers.

  Pink on a man can go one of two ways.

  Either you are gay and showing it. Or, and I like this option far more. You are so outrageously comfortable in your potent sexuality, you wear pink as a statement of your virility, and basically advertise to all and sundry that you have a very large knob.

  I'm going to go large knob. This guy does not look gay in the slightest.

  "You work on the third floor don't you?" he asks taking my attention off the chicken as he reaches out to shake my hand.

  "Tom," he tells me accepting my shocked limp hand in his own.

  "Uh, uh,"

  That’s the best I can come up with.

  "You’re Zoe, aren't you?"

  "I think so. Um, no, actually yes I am. I think."

  Good God.

  "Hey." He smiles at me which makes my legs feel all weird and numb. Like I may not be able to walk on them for a while. He watches as I attempt to get my face to move itself into something resembling a smile. I fail and then some, as I grind my teeth at him instead.

  Andre is watching us with an amused smile and Tom turns his attention back to him handing over a fiver.

  "Uh, Tom. Uh, sorry how do we know each other?"

  Lame. Lame. Lame.

  He laughs. "I work for IT. I’m the one who always walks around carrying bits of computers about the place, and sitting under desks fixing stuff."

  Nope. I am pretty sure I would have remembered him crawling under my desk.

  "IT. That sound exciting."

  It doesn't, but I’m at a loss for what to say.

  He takes his sandwich from Andre and turns to me smiling once again. This time the teasing smile has been replaced by a full wattage grin that makes his eyes shine.

  Whoa.

  "Nice to meet you Zoe."

  "Um, you too. I guess," I say watching him walk out of the door.

  Hold on a minute.

  "Hey, wait up, that was my order," I shout, darting after him onto the narrow street outside.

  He turns, keeping the sandwich behind his back.

  "No I don't think so."

  "I said it first."

  "Maybe, but you didn’t pay first."

  "Okay how about I pay you, for it."

  He gives a little laugh and I flush instantly.

  "The sandwich obviously, nothing else," I clarify, going beyond pink and into the puce realm of the colour chart.

  "How about I keep the sandwich and owe you one good IT deed?"

  I scrunch my face up. That sounds like a shit trade.

  "Oh whatever, just keep the sandwich," I retort storming off the in the opposite direction. A direction which takes me away from fancy delicatessens and towards McDonalds, where they never run out of anything.

  An hour later I am back at my desk partially satisfied with a Happy Meal when an instant message flashes up.

  Tom Carter: I feel kind of bad now.

  And so he bloody should. Then I remember Tristan and his delay on my deadline, and the fact I am likely to get the sack if I don't get my release out on time.

  Me: Now, about that IT good deed. Just how far are you willing to go?"

  Tom Carter: How far do you want me to go?

  Something about the word want makes my stomach squeeze in an uncomfortable way.

  Me: I need a legitimate excuse not to release a digital pub this evening and preferably not till Monday...

  I’m taking the piss and I know it.

  I know it even more when I don't get a response from him. Damn it.

  I am just pre-empting my sacking by packing my stuff up on my desk when I get a blip on my machine.

  Tom Carter: server down. I think you now owe me, I will come for payment.

  My mind which cannot be controlled at the best of times, rolls itself into the gutter and thinks of ways I could pay back the enigmatic Tom Carter.

  I know I would never do it though, my thoughts are just a sign that I’ve definitely read far too many romance novels.

  Thinking of which, I still need to get home to that cowboy.

  I send a quick message back before switching off my computer and grabbing my bag, making a bid for freedom like the rest of London on a Friday night.

  Me: I'll think of repayment options over the weekend. Thanx. . .

  The Twitch

  Something really annoying is happening to me, and I actually think I may need to go to the doctor, or perhaps the emergency room.

  I can’t stop twitching. It’s really bloody annoying.
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br />   I came home as usual, ready to follow my Friday night routine. Bath. Jimjams. Book. Wine. Pizza. Bed.

  But something went wrong before the first stage was complete. I was running the bath with lots of bubbles, just how I like it, when I ended up staring out of the window for half an hour and flooded the bathroom. Once in the oversized bath I couldn’t relax at all. I just sat there staring into space. It was only as I got out of the bath and did a bit of a weird wobble that I remembered my pathetic Happy Meal lunch and the reason why I didn’t get to have my favourite sandwich.

  That’s when the twitching began.

  Twitch. Twitch. Twitch.

  Twitch in the kitchen, twitch in the lounge, twitch between the bedroom and the lounge. Twitch about with an unopened book in my hand.

  I am stopped from anymore twitching by a prolonged finger being held against the flat intercom buzzer.

  BZZZZZ.

  I march over and grab the receiver barking “What,” into it.

  Over the static crackling of the outdated communication system I can make out Annabelle’s voice. “You better be ready we are running late.”

  “Ready for what I am dressed for bed.”

  There is a moment of silence followed by, “It’s seventy thirty you complete sado, let us up now.”

  I give a groan as I press the entry key. The “Us,” makes me realise that John must be with her as well. Great. Not that he’s all bad, but I do find him a little on the boring side. Okay I find him a lot on the boring side. Grabbing my dressing gown, I sling it over my pyjamas and pull it tight around my middle, as I wait for Annabelle’s endless whirlwind of upbeat enthusiasm and activity to arrive in my pokey bedsit.

  Annabelle arrives in a cloud of Clinique Happy and towering stilletoes, air kissing me as she leans down to give me a hug. “Why on earth aren’t you ready, we are going to be late?”

  “Late for what exactly?

  “Brixton Academy? Remember? Battle of the Bands?”

  Oh yes that. Bugger.

  “Okay give me five and I will grab some jeans and be ready.”