I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy)

by Camilla Isley

  “You’d be surprised how well-connected Richard is. How else do you think he managed to pull together this”—she uses her pen to point around the office—“in less than six months? And then make it cash positive after only one year in business.”

  I want to reply, by underpaying over-qualified employees like myself, but I refrain. Instead, I say, “Okay, Richard knows people. But Saskia is supposed to be dating actors, NFL stars, or billionaires. What is she doing with Richard?”

  Indira sighs. “They don’t make for a bad couple.”

  I follow Indira’s hinting stare toward the door where Richard has appeared next to Saskia.

  Unfortunately, Indira is right. Saskia is tall, but Richard is taller. Side by side, both wearing jeans and plain T-shirts, they look like a Calvin Klein ad. Sleek, glamorous, sexy. Worst of all, they do belong. Richard with his dashing smile, one-day stubble, and effortlessly cool vibe. Saskia with her long limbs, out-of-this-world face, and hair to die for.

  As if hypnotized, I watch Richard guide Saskia out with a hand on her lower back. I wonder how that would feel.

  Would Richard’s hand be warm on my back? Would I feel it through the fabric of my shirt? Would it send electricity up my spine?

  The answer is probably yes to all three.

  “Does that mean the receptionist is gone?” I ask.

  Richard was dating a hotel receptionist when I accepted the job three weeks ago.

  “They never last,” Indira replies. “I told you the boss is damaged goods.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t tell me why.”

  Indira leans in closer, speaking in a hushed tone. “It’s just gossip but…” She looks around for a second as if to check if someone is eavesdropping.

  I make a “give it to me” gesture. Sometimes Indira is a bit of a drama queen.

  “Well, legend has it the boss was about to get married, and the bride did a runner on him.”

  I gasp. “No!”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You mean he was engaged, and his fiancée broke it off before the wedding?”

  “No, I mean he was at the altar literally getting married and the bride panicked or something and ran out mid-ceremony. I don’t know the details.”

  I purse my lips, unconvinced. “Who told you this story?”

  “Oh, you know how urban legends start. One knows the story, but somehow can’t remember how, when, or who told it. It’s just something everyone knows.”

  “You think it’s true?”

  “I’ve never met someone as commitment-phobic as Richard. True, it could be innate. But somehow, I don’t think it is. It’s like the boss is trying too hard to pretend he doesn’t care. All that cynicism has to come from a scar somewhere in his past. One that runs deep. Plus, all his friends from London say he was a completely different person before he moved here.”

  “Different, how?”

  “Just the opposite of how he is now. The perfect boyfriend who would plan the perfect date for his girlfriend. Romantic, ready to commit, to start a family. But now… I mean he’s a great friend, boss, and businessman. But he would make a dreadful boyfriend.”

  “Don’t you think he would change if he met the right woman?”

  “Why?” Indira gives me her signature I-see-everything stare. “Are you nominating yourself for the role?”

  My cheeks heat up and I break eye contact. “No, not at all. I was just speculating.”

  “Maybe one day, who knows? But I’m sure whoever that woman will be, she’ll have to sweat blood and tears before pinning Richard down. And as much of a piece of eye candy as the boss is, that’s just too much work for me.”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I say awkwardly. “Who would want that?”

  ***

  I spend the night staring at the ceiling torn between two opposite instincts. The first, my growing forbidden crush for my boss; the other, my unchecked work ambition. Having Saskia Landon do a photo shoot for Inceptor Magazine would skyrocket my style page to fashion heaven. But the mere thought of asking Richard to intercede with his supermodel girlfriend-of-the-week makes my skin crawl. Would he ask her as they cuddled in bed?

  Yuck!

  Unable to sleep, I grab my tablet from the nightstand to indulge in my new favorite hobby: reading Richard’s weekly column. As Editor-in-Chief, he spends most of his time supervising other people’s work. But the boss has cut a small literary space for himself where every Monday he writes an editorial. Sometimes it’s humorous, other times it’s more serious. But every single time his writing is brilliant.

  Each week, the first thing I do over breakfast is read the newest column. Forget the Monday Blues, it always puts me in a good mood. And on nights like this, when I don’t have a book or something else to read, I like to go over older pieces and get lost in his musings. Can you fall in love with someone by reading their words?

  Yes.

  No.

  Maybe?

  Anyway, Richard couldn’t just be a piece of eye candy. Oh, no. He had to be smart, witty, and inventive, too. The more time I spend with him, the harder it is not to fall under his spell. And the more I read his words, the more I feel this connection with him. As do all the other women who read the column, I’m sure. I scroll down to the comments, penned, as suspected, mainly by female users. Male readers appreciate his writing, too, but I bet women are prompted to leave a comment by the author headshot posted at the top of the page. Could a man this intelligent really be afraid of serious relationships?

  This is stupid. Richard is my boss. He’d be off limits even without his baggage. Richard, left at the altar. Could it be true? How could any woman about to marry Richard leave him? The gal must’ve been crazy.

  I get a mental picture of his handsome, chiseled face staring at the bride as she runs down the aisle away from him. The intelligent spark of his chestnut irises subdued as he lowers his gaze to the church’s floor in defeat. The lovely crinkles he gets around the eyes when he smiles banished by sorrow. Forehead creased. Jaw tense.

  Then he raises his face again, and the gentle, trusting man is gone. Features hardened, cheeks gaunt, and lips parted in that cynic, uncaring grin Richard uses to scorn the world. He’s a man wearing a mask. He’s the Richard I know.

  ***

  In the end, ambition wins out over my silly crush for the boss. The next morning I find myself knocking on Richard’s door as soon as he gets into the office.

  He looks up and smiles. “Blair, come in.”

  “Hi,” I stutter nervously, taking the chair in front of his desk.

  “How can I help my star employee?”

  “S-star employee?”

  Richard frowns. “Nobody showed you the numbers?”

  “Uh, no.”

  His entire face lights up, and my stupid belly flutters in response. I need to swallow mothballs and kill the love bug infestation. Richard shuffles some stacks of paper on his desk until he finds the folder he was looking for. “These are the first analytics from your pages; it’s amazing what you were able to do in only three weeks.”

  To build some one-hundred backlist articles, I had to call in every favor anyone in the industry owed me, and now I’m all spent. That’s why a big, Saskia-Landon break is what I need.

  “These looks great.” I grimace, staring at numbers that are a teensy fraction of what I used to pull at Évoque. “But we need something truly spectacular if we’re hoping for a real breakthrough.”

  Richard shakes his head. “Even with numbers as good as these, I can’t allot any extras to your section.”

  “Okay.” I flash him a mischievous smile. “But you can intercede with your connections.”

  Richard frowns questioningly.

  “Was that Saskia Landon you left with yesterday?” I cut to the chase.

  Richard’s eyes widen. “Yeah, Saskia is a good friend.”

  A good friend? As in only a friend?! Please be specific, Richard, t
hese things matter. Friend or girlfriend? I ignore the ramming questions in my head and ask, “As your good friend, would Saskia agree to do a photo shoot for us?”

  “We can’t afford her.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Deliver Saskia for two hours, and I can get any brand on the planet to pay her fee, the photographer’s fee, and book a year’s worth of advertisement with us as well. Fashion houses will fight each other to jump at the opportunity.”

  “And you can guarantee this?”

  “One-hundred percent.”

  “All right,” Richard finally agrees. “Saskia leaves New York in three days; can you pull it off with such short notice?”

  “You tell me which two hours she has and I’ll sort the rest.” I stand up. “Do you think you can get her to agree?”

  “I can try.” Richard smiles dashingly and with a sinking heart, I realize he might not have to try too hard. “Anything else?”

  “If she says yes, get me her manager’s contact information. Before making a proposal I need to be sure she doesn’t have any feud going on with a designer or a photographer.”

  “Feud?”

  “A Kanye West vs. Taylor Swift sort of thing, know what I mean?”

  Richard stares at me blankly. “No.”

  “It’s probably better that way. Anyway, as soon as you have news, please let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  I walk back to my station and sit at my desk, not at all triumphant. As I pull names for potential sponsors and photographers, I try to shake off the image of Richard asking Saskia as they lie on rumpled sheets after hours of mind-blowing sex.

  ***

  Saskia agrees to the shoot. Was it because Richard gave her the best seeing-to of her life? Or are they genuinely friends? I don’t let myself care. Instead, I wire my brain to professional mode and, in record time, I whip together the photo shoot of the season.

  Photographer: Adam Bell

  Sponsor, clothes, and accessories: Angelika Black. In-house stylist (Mandy)

  Location: Grunge rooftop in Brooklyn

  View: Manhattan Skyline

  Makeup artist: Hire two just in case. All unexpected events must be covered.

  So it is that the following Saturday morning by six o’clock, I’ve already been working for three hours. The set had to be ready early to shoot Saskia in the flattering light of dawn.

  Our star arrived at five. We went through the racks of clothes, together with the stylist from Angelika Black, and Saskia agreed to every single outfit. She’s so irritably nice. Honestly, I’d hoped she’d turn out to be a diva to compensate for her perfect genetics. But no, Saskia Landon is professional to a T.

  More than that, she’s super kind with everyone and even cracks jokes with the staff. Why would Richard ever look at anyone else?

  The boss didn’t come to the shoot. The only other person from Inceptor Magazine here is Saffron, our social media expert. She wanted to take some edgy backstage pics to build our Instagram feed.

  As I watch the photographer take one perfect shot after the other of the most beautiful woman on earth, my emotions swing wildly between editorial lust and primal female jealousy. The stylist, Mandy, has no reservations. She can’t stop clapping and squealing as she watches the shots appear on the screen after every click of the camera.

  By seven thirty, we have enough frames to build two editorials: one for spring and one for the fall. To get the most out of this opportunity, I asked Mandy to bring some items from next year’s collection as well.

  Adam clicks his camera one last time and looks at me with an interrogative frown.

  I clap my hands and call, “It’s a wrap, everyone.”

  The staff claps along. Saskia hugs Adam, Mandy, and me. Bah, she even smells good. Saskia would probably hug everyone else on set, but her PA herds her downstairs to get changed before moving on to their next commitment.

  Saffron comes to stand next to me. “Cool stuff,” she says, sliding pictures on her phone with a finger. “Exactly the edgy, young vibe we needed.”

  I bend my head closer to hers to peek at the screen. “These are amazing.”

  If Saffron managed to snap pictures like that with an iPhone, I can’t wait to see Adam’s final product. He and his assistants have already dismantled the set and are carrying away the last bits of equipment. Before Adam leaves, we agree he’ll send me as much as he can by Monday.

  When everyone else is gone, I do a check of both the makeshift dressing room downstairs and the rooftop to make sure we left nothing behind. Alone on the terrace, I rest my arms against the railing to look at my old office building across the East River. My eyes travel all the way up to the thirty-eighth floor, to Évoque’s windows. Manhattan might’ve chewed me up and spit me out in Brooklyn, but I’ll be damned before I renounce my dream.

  “You’ll see,” I promise the sunlit building. “I’ll be back.”

  Five

  Never Make Impulse Decisions

  Monday at the office, I’m happily shuffling through all the amazing photos Adam sent me when my personal inbox flashes on the computer screen.

  Transfixed, I stare at the sender’s name and subject for a few seconds.

  Date: Mon, May 1 at 9:18 AM

  From: gerard.wakefield@aol.com

  To: blair.walker@yahoo.com

  Subject: Our Breakup

  I haven’t heard from the ex since spaghetti night. What does he want? Despite myself, my pulse quickens. I let the mouse hover over the subject line without actually opening the email. What will the text say? What do I want it to say? Do I want it to be a groveling apology and desperate plea for me to take him back? Sure. But why? Is it only pride or am I kidding myself thinking I could get over a three-year story in less than a month?

  After some serious soul-searching, I’m ready to read what Gerard has to say. Yes, I want him to apologize for cheating on me with his secretary. But, no, I don’t want Gerard back. Our breakup, however un-classy it was on both our parts, was the right call.

  One click and the full message appears on the screen. With every passing line I read, bile swells in my throat, and by the end, I’m full of acid and anger. To think that for a second I even considered taking him back!

  When I hit reply and start playing whack-a-mole with my keyboard, Indira stops her work and turns to stare at me.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks. “If you keep batting the keys like that your fingertips will bruise.”

  “The matter,” I hiss, whacking along, “is that I wasted the last three years of my life dating an imbecile—”

  “Imbecile?” Indira arches her brows. “Are you classy even when you swear?”

  I finish my reply and hit the send button with satisfied ferocity.

  Indira studies me a little longer and says, “Repeat after me. My ex-boyfriend is a dickhead.”

  “Is that the best insult you can muster?”

  “I agree, we can do better. How about—”

  My phone rings, interrupting her.

  “It’s him,” I say.

  I press a button to silence the ringtone.

  “Care to tell me what happened?”

  “The imbecile sent me an email offering not to sue me for throwing a plate of spaghetti on his dick-head if I sign a confidentiality agreement about his affair. He basically wants me to sign a document that says it’s okay for him to keep screwing his secretary.”

  “Mmm.” Indira purses her lips. “And what did you reply?”

  “I thanked him for providing written proof of his misconduct at work in case the senior partners at his firm needed it on paper. And I told him he can expect news from my lawyer as I’m the one suing him for emotional damages.”

  Indira makes a fist and swirls her arm in the air in circles. “Go, girl. Finally, the redhead in you comes out!”

  When the phone rings again, I’m about to put it permanently to silent but Indira stops
me.

  “Let me handle him.” She picks up the phone, frowning at the caller ID. “Edward Cullen? What’s his real name?”

  I have this little habit of naming my contacts after book or movie characters, and I still haven’t updated Gerard’s to a more appropriate one.

  “Right, I need to change that. Real name’s Gerard.”

  “What a sorry-ass name. Surname?”

  “Wakefield.”

  Indira makes a gagging face and answers. “Blair Walker’s phone.”

  I can hear Gerard’s voice even if the phone’s not on speaker. “Hello, who is this?”

  “Hello, Mr. Wakefield. This is Indira Singh, Miss Walker’s attorney.”

  “She hired an attorney? What’s the name of your firm? Is this for real?”

  “Given the considerable amount of emotional distress you caused my client, Miss Walker intends to pursue legal action against you. We should probably thank you for sending a written confession of your immoral conduct, Mr. Wakefield. It couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “Blair is pressing charges against me? After what she did?” Gerard is yelling now. I imagine his face red and contorted with rage as he spits into the phone, “Should I remind you she’s the one who threw a bowl of scorching pasta over my head? Are you out of your mind? What kind of lawyer are y—”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, I can’t discuss any details of the proceedings with the counterpart. You can expect to hear from us soon. Have a good day.” Indira ends the call and gives me the phone back. “Let the vermin squirm in fear for a little longer.”

  Our eyes meet, and we collapse in a fit of laughter. We stop, try to remain serious, only to burst out worse than before. It takes Richard passing by and asking us what’s so funny for me to sober up. I give Indira a warning stare. I’d rather the boss didn’t know I’m so lame my ex sent me a confidentiality agreement about his affair.

  Indira shrugs. “Girl stuff.”

  I shrug as well, making an innocent face.

  Richard shakes his head and moves along. “I suppose I don’t want to know.”

  “Sage, boss,” Indira calls after him.

  We share another secretive smile and get back to our respective jobs.