Oh God. She jumped up from her desk as if it’s been electrified. Anthony thought she was being victimised, smacked around. Oh dear God. In his blundering way he was genuinely trying to help.
She sat back down; glad to her You’re a Piza Work pink toenail polish no one had witnessed her panicked state. She spent the next half hour furtively watching the door from the lift well for Anthony—no Ant, she needed to start thinking of him as Ant—a dunderhead who was trying to be gallant. If you considered gallant boxing her in a small room, ignoring her requests to leave, harassing her for no good reason, and then revealing that reason on permanently recorded email.
The minute he cleared the foyer door, his eyes were on her. He gave her a tight, toothless grimace and a quick bob of his head, but that was it. He went to his desk and two minutes later his eyes were down on his screen. Bree spent the next half hour trying to attract his attention and failing.
She took the long way to the water cooler to walk behind his workstation—twice. She engaged his closest neighbour, Mal, in a discussion about currency adjustments largely to put herself in Ant’s eye line, and when all her tricks failed, and before Christine smelled a rat, she reopened his email and typed a response.
Re: A moment. Thank you for your obvious concern and your offer to assist. However I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. No need for you to worry. Again thanks.
It was bland, clear and unambiguous. It said back off, without spelling it out. It said thank you, without welcoming further discussion. And that would hopefully be the end of it. They could go back to comfortably avoiding each other, like normal, even if that comfort was now a little lumpy. She read the email back. It was so to the point it was verging on rude, but there was no way he could misconstrue it as anything other than a dead argument. She shifted her cursor, hit send then tried to recapture her lost morning. She didn’t get much done in the half hour he gave her. And she knew he was behind her before he spoke.
“Bree, I’m wondering if you would look over my quarterly predictions report.”
She half turned her chair so she was side on to him. “Me?” Did he smell like sunshine and saltwater or was she imaging that?
“Yeah, you’re the senior analyst.”
And he was a passive aggressive low life. What was she supposed to say to that? No, and half the office would hear her being unhelpful, not Ant being a dickhead. Yes, and she’d have to talk to him, and sure as it was around the usual time he nicked downstairs to buy more of that strong coffee he liked, he’d make a big deal about buying her one too.
“Before you ask I’ve had coffee thanks.”
“Ah, good, yeah. I just thought you might have a view on the next six months.”
Chris spun around in her chair and glared at them both, a hand over the receiver of her phone. “Guys, on a call.”
Ant mouthed sorry, but put his hand on the back of Bree’s chair stopping her from turning away from him. He said, “Please, Bree,” so softly it was a surprise such a gentle, pleading sound could come from such a big bloke.
She was a total sucker. “All right buy me a coffee and I’ll look at your report.”
She grabbed her purse and pushed her chair back. He stepped away, but his eyes were on her as she stood and he followed her into the lift foyer, where he made small talk with various people and she tried to feel okay about being shanghaied by him.
They rode the express lift down all forty-two floors of the fifty-two floor building stopping only twice, but not speaking even when they had the carriage to themselves. In the building foyer, Ant suggested a coffee shop across the road. At least that was smart, they were less likely to run into anyone from the office there. Bree picked a table in the corner and took the seat facing out to the street front, that way she wouldn’t have to look at him; she could look at the people waiting at the taxi rank. Of course once they’d settled she realised he had nowhere else to look except at her.
Under his steady scrutiny she forgot her resolve to be pleasant. “I don’t know what you want to talk about, but the email, did you even think about the fact that’s a permanent record?”
“Go on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have it out, Bree. Spill. Go to town. Say whatever it is you need to say to me. It won’t be worse than I’ve said to myself the last twenty-four hours.”
She frowned at him. “I said what I needed to say on email.”
He gave a bitter snicker. “You said what you thought would get rid of me quickest.”
“So we understand each other then.”
He unfolded arms that’d been tight across his chest. “Not even a little bit.”
“What do you want from me?”
He sucked in a huge lungful of air, then rolled his head left to right as if his neck was stiff and sore. “I want two things.”
“Great.” She emphasised the tee sound for maximum sarcasm, but immediately felt mean for doing it when he sighed again. “Sorry. You and I—it was better when we avoided each other.”
“No it wasn’t.” He leaned forward, spreading both palms on the table as though he was opening himself to her. “You avoided me because I was a big, loud, self important fuckwit and all that showed was good sense. And I avoided you because I thought you were a snob and a bitch, and a product of equal opportunity lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.”
He might as well have punched her. “Wow. Just wow. You admit you think I got the job because I wear a skirt.” She figured he’d thought that, but to hear him say it. Wow.
“Yep.”
He didn’t dodge. He took that right on the chin. “Wow.”
“I was wrong. That’s the first thing I want to say. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m a dickhead. You worked hard for the promotion and you deserved it. I’m a fucking sore loser and that’s all there is to it.”
She couldn’t possibly say the word wow again, but that’s what was echoing in her head, and then he went and built that echo into a roar of surprise and a reverberation of emotions she found hard to name.
“I’m worried you’re fobbing me off. The second thing I want is for you to look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not in some kind of trouble. I’ve got two sisters. I’d kill anyone who hurt them and ask questions later. I’m overbearing I know, they tell me all the time. I can’t help it. It’s in my DNA. I don’t even know you, but if someone is hurting you, I want to help you stop it.”
She gaped at him, her tongue stuck somewhere in the base of her stomach where it flip-flopped about. This was what he’d wanted to say yesterday, what he’d tried to finesse on email, and what he was utterly one hundred percent genuine about now.
“I don’t care if I’m embarrassing you, Bree. I don’t care if you hate me worse for this and never speak to me again.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I need to know and I’m not taking your polite handball for an answer.”
There was no bluster in him, no artifice, no being the big swinging dick. She still couldn’t form a coherent thought, but her hands shot out and closed over his. His eyes went down then back up to hers showing only confusion. Then he seemed to realise she was struggling and freed his hands to pour her a glass of water. She sipped, watching him, fascinated by him, while she figured out what to say to give him the truth without giving her game away.
8: Contact
He’d done it. He’d said it. Got it out. Got it all out, the falling on his sword thing, the damsel in distress thing, and she looked like she was going to cry. Fuck. And on top of that she wasn’t going to say anything. Any minute now she’d start looking out into the street and then she’d get up and leave him here, feeling like he was stuck on a sandbar.
That moment where she’d put her hands on his, tongue-tied and cornered, but finally getting where he was coming from and not feeling she needed to go ninja on him. Ah, that moment alone, was worth the crisis of confidence he’d had over her.
Now he wanted to take back twelve months of avoidi
ng, ignoring and secretly ridiculing her. He didn’t know her. He certainly didn’t understand her, but he no longer felt irritated by her. She wasn’t a snob, she was focussed and no nonsense, maybe a little shy. She wasn’t a bitch, that was just how he’d chosen to think of her to make it easier to see her as a rival instead of a real person, and then it was a perfect fit when his own ambitions were stalled. But now he saw her. She was suddenly real to him not a cardboard cut-out villain. She hated olives and anchovies. She had great shoes. She was funny. She was gutsy.
She didn’t hate him.
But he had no idea what she really thought of him and now for some reason, it mattered.
“I, ah. I don’t know what to say, Ant. I had no idea you were under the impression I was in a bad situation.”
He frowned. She was going to hedge, dodge, tell him bloody nothing. But she’d called him Ant at least. She put her hand over one of his again and it was cool and light and he liked it.
“I’m not in any trouble. No one is hurting me. I’m not even in a relationship. I fall over. It’s my own fault.”
“What?” He barked that, and of course she took her hand away. The odd thing was he missed it.
“I’m not making an excuse, I play a contact sport.”
“You.” Even to his own stupid ears that rang with incredulity.
She sighed and pushed back into her seat. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”
And he had. He’d done that thing where he led with his bloody ego and didn’t pay proper attention. Because she looked too small, too soft, he’d taken that to be her whole story, like he’d taken history to be Toni’s present and future. “I’m sorry. You don’t seem the type.”
“And what would that be?” She waved a waiter over and they ordered while the argument hung around on the sidelines waiting for the all clear whistle. If it wasn’t for Toni, he’d have said more butch, but there was nothing un-girly about Toni, so that wasn’t it.
“The aggressive type.” She was so tiny, but she’d gone for him across the table yesterday like she didn’t know he was the tree and she was the twig.
“There are different types of aggression.”
“Sure.”
He barely got the word out and she was all over him. “But you don’t think I’ve got it in me to be aggressive on the sports field?”
All that bewildered quality about her was rubbing off; the serrated edge was back in her voice. Yeah, there were different types of aggression; hers was the type to cut a guy in half for being honest finally. “Chicks who play a contact sport don’t have to run around in the shower to get wet.”
“God, you’re so superior.”
“Look, it doesn’t matter what I think.”
“You’re right.”
“I just needed to understand you’re bruised because you, well you’re okay about being bruised. I don’t need to know the details.”
“You’re on a roll now.”
“So, look me in the eye, Bree. Tell me you’re not being hurt by anyone, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And she did. She jerked her chin up, fixed her honey brown eyes on him and they didn’t waver, not for second. It was so belligerent in its way, the waiter hesitated to approach. She said, “Thanks,” addressing the guy, without breaking eye contact with Ant and the waiter put their cups down and scarpered.
When she spoke her voice was formal, cool. “Thank you for your concern, Ant. I appreciate it. I do. It probably took a lot for you to do this. But there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m bruised because I play sport and sometimes I get hurt. Not often, and not badly. I’m good at what I do. You don’t need to worry.”
He took a sip. He didn’t believe her. She was the girl most unlikely to play a sport where you’d get knocked around and injured, it wasn’t just her lack of bulk, it was her pedigree. A woman like Bree went to plays and gallery openings. She’d play tennis or golf, maybe ran. He figured a boxing class at the gym was the closest she’d get to a contact sport. Yet that’s not what she was telling him. And she’d done what he asked so he had nowhere to go with this. “If something changes and...”
“It won’t. I’m not in any trouble.”
He shook his head. “I want to believe you, but...”
“Ant. You’ve done your bit, but we’re good to go back to ignoring each other.”
“We are.” The problem was he didn’t want to be back there. Not only because he didn’t trust her story, but because the more he saw of her the more interesting she was.
She left him in the cafe and for the rest of the fortnight they ignored each other, but it was ignorance with a difference. Now instead of sliding eye contact, there were nods of acknowledgement and the occasional smile. There was even an accidental conversation or two, once about how slow the lift was, and once about traffic. Unremarkable, except pretty much all of their previous accidental conversations featured the study of each other’s footwear. So this was progress. Though it felt more like treading water. And if Bree sported any new bruises she kept them well hidden.
And every day they shared a “Gosh, it’s hot outside,” or a “Have a good evening,” they were one day closer to the announcement of the winner of the fake share portfolio competition. Ant might have graduated from looking at her stilettos to her eyes but he wasn’t rolling over to let her pat his tummy. The competition was his.
Doug decided a team dinner was in order to celebrate, so Friday night they converged on Pinetti at the ultra trendy Vine. The place was packed with the cities best and brightest, the rooftop pool sparkled, the drinks flowed, and the mating game was in full force by the time Ant arrived. He hated this place. It was all about the gloss and glamour. It shit all over Son of a Beach Bar in terms of facilities, hell, even in terms of basic cleanliness, but it was so deeply superficial it made his head spin. And this from a guy who specifically cultivated superficial in his love life. Maybe he was getting old.
The rest of the team, except Doug who was somewhere behind him in the crowd, were seated when he dragged his arse in. If it weren’t for the meal being on Doug and the announcement of the winner, he’d have made an excuse and gone for a surf. Better to battle grommets than the in-crowd.
Instead he surfed a crowd of big-noters and Friday night heroes, wingmen and Barbie dolls to reach their table. Before he even got there he faced a choice. Two empty seats: one on the left of Bree, one at the other end of the table. She made the decision for him by looking up and smiling. Had she been drinking? Because that smile was different. It had teeth and cheekbone; it had bright eyes and a magnetic quality. There was nowhere else to sit except beside her. He skirted the table, put his hands on the back of the chair to her left and a sudden wave of insecurity hit him with such force he almost swam against the tidal pull around to the other available seat. She can’t have been smiling at him like that.
She looked up and did it again. “I won’t bite.”
He sat down with all the grace of a bloke whose knees were ruined by years of jogging on cement. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
“Holding back isn’t my thing.”
He grunted. “I’ve noticed.”
“You were going to sit over there,” she gestured to the seat, Doug was folding into.
“Thought about it.”
She laughed, lifted her glass, not a wine glass, not a cocktail or a spirit. He saw the bubbles of mineral water. “What stopped you?”
He should’ve said a smile, something surprisingly real in the seaweed of fake, but he was still processing the laugh. She’d laughed at him, not with bitterness, but the way you did when something amused you. “Thought it’d annoy you more if I sat here.”
“You must think my tolerance is pretty damn low?”
“My power to annoy is shit hot.”
She laughed and there it was again, a tear in the fabric of his known universe. “I can see that,” she said.
“This
is our longest conversation about,” he hesitated remembering the conversation in the cafe, “sport, mechanical failures or the state of the sun. Why are you humouring me?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He considered her. He’d never been quite so close to her before. With the slightest movement of his knee or elbow he’d be touching her. He gestured to the bottle of Evian on the table. “You’re not drunk. You’re probably not high,” he looked over his shoulder. “Am I wearing a sign on my back that says ‘kick me’ and you’re being perverse?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
She shrugged. “Do I need a reason to be civil to you?”
“Hell yeah!”
She reached for the Evian bottle and poured it into the glass in front of his place setting. “I guess I like it better when we’re not at war. It’s less exhausting.”
He considered that. He considered her. Her suit today was a fitted dress and a lightweight jacket. Her caramel coloured hair was in a swirl at the back of her head, but the heat had made soft curls of the short pieces that framed her face and neck. She had freckles. He wasn’t blind especially where it came to a good looking woman, but he’d never noticed how big her eyes were, how plump her lips. She only wore the faintest trace of makeup and it was either Bree, or the wine being poured, that smelled crisp like his shirts did fresh from the dry-cleaner.
“Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”
Caught out staring. “Ah, no.”
“So what are you looking at me like that for?”
“Like what?” Like he was appreciating modern art, but was surprised that he liked it.
“Like I have two heads.”
He was keen for a beer. He should’ve ditched this and gone for a surf. Bree was having a go at him, but he’d lost the thread, didn’t get the joke. He was desperate for this conversation take a new tack. He used an old faithful Neanderthal fallback, “Huh?” while signalling their waiter to suggest he’d lost interest in anything but liquid sustenance.
Desk Jockey Jam Page 6
