by Kiki Archer
“What do you think this is, a bloody ambulance?”
Harriet turned her attention back to Camila. “Here, reach up to my shoulders, I’ll help you out.”
“Your suit. It’s designer.”
“I don’t care about my suit. Come on, let me help you up.”
Julie piped up again. “You won’t get that grease out.”
“Julie, is she okay? She looks a bit dazed.”
Julie tutted. “She must be a bit bloody dazed if she’s got feelings for you.”
“Feelings for me?”
Camila groaned as Harriet hauled her upright. “I haven’t got feelings for you.”
“Stop groaning then,” shouted Julie.
“You haven’t?” Harriet was looking down on her patient with wide eyes.
“I… will you just take me home?”
Harriet smiled. “Of course I will. Here let me help you to my car.”
“I can’t get in your car, I’m filthy.”
“It’s fine, come on, it doesn’t matter.”
Julie tutted again. “Oh look at you two lovebirds. Isn’t this sweet. Shut that door tight when you get out, in fact why don’t you carry her as you exit over the threshold.”
Camila turned back to her friend. “I’m sorry for the mess, Julie.”
Julie whistled. “Things are going to get A LOT messier than this.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lowering herself into the Mercedes, Camila tried to inhabit as little of the passenger seat as she could. “Don’t you have a blanket or something for me to sit on?” she asked.
“Stop fussing, it’s just a car.”
“But you’ve been avoiding me because your last car got stolen.”
“Avoiding you? I’ve not been avoiding you. I came into work yesterday – in my red stilettos – to discover you’d walked out.”
“Your red stilettos?”
“Yes, my red stilettos, which I then realised was rather ridiculous given that you’d decided to jump ship.” Harriet stared at her passenger before starting the engine. “Camila, what on earth’s happened to you? Why aren’t you at work and why are you wearing a pair of tights? Where’s your skirt gone? And why’s your whole body so slippery?”
“I fell over. The grease trough cracked on me.”
“And your skirt?”
“I forgot it.”
“You were headed to work though, right?”
Camila paused. This all sounded so ridiculous. There was no way she could sugar coat any of it. “I left,” she said, staring Harriet straight in the eye. What she’d learnt in life was that she had to be honest. She had to lay all her cards on the table and tell the truth. That’s what she’d done with her parents when she’d found out she was pregnant. Yes, she’d wondered about the possibility of disappearing for nine months before returning with an adopted baby, or maybe just pretending she was getting fat until finding a baby in the park, or even just saying she had no clue how it had happened. Surely some boys released semen when they were swimming? Maybe the friction coming down the waterslide at the local pool had caused them to ejaculate and then she’d happened to slide down after them and her legs had opened with the force of the water and that’s how it had happened. Or maybe a boy had used the girls’ toilets and she’d sat on the seat where he’d accidentally left some sperm. Or maybe a boy had used the wrong showers at school and got carried away with the soap which she’d then used.
Camila squirmed in her seat at the memory. Aside from being implausible, all of those options had one major pitfall: she didn’t want her baby taken away. This baby was hers, hers and Mick’s, and that’s what she had to say to her parents.
“I walked out because of you,” she suddenly announced.
“Excuse me?”
Camila turned to Harriet. “Okay, I could blame the fact that I felt embarrassed that I only got the job because my initials are C.U.M.”
“Camila—”
“Don’t, it’s true. Or I could say I was mortified when your PA read out the email I wrote you in the lift in front of the whole team.”
“What email? You wrote me an email in the lift?”
“No, she read it in the lift. It doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is that I could also suggest it was because I’ve had no good invention ideas.”
“You’ve had some great invention ideas.”
“I haven’t, but let me finish. You’ve got inside my head, Harriet. I touched myself this morning. I was thinking about you.” There. The whole deck of cards had just been slapped face up on the table.
Harriet was smiling.
“What? You don’t think that’s weird?”
“I think it’s weird that you’d choose to revert to a skirt-less greasy spoon shift girl instead of confronting your attraction.”
“You don’t like my new look?”
Both Harriet and Camila smiled before Camila continued slowly. “I didn’t say it was an attraction.”
“You said you never thought of anyone apart from Stallion Mick.”
“When I’m having sex.”
“Oh right! I see! But you’re a solo sex fantasist are you?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Harriet started the car. “I need to get you home. We need to explore this further.”
Camila glanced out of the window. “Where are we going? Why have you turned left? My house is just there on the right.”
“I’m taking you home. My home.”
“No! I need to get changed. I need to shower.”
“I have a shower. I have clothes.”
“I need my clothes.”
“I have your tracksuit.”
“We can’t go to your house.”
“Why not?”
“Because I should be at work.”
“Where? On the van? In the office? What do you want, Camila?”
“I don’t know.”
Harriet was smiling. “You thought about me?”
“Stop it. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You said it.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“You tell me. Maybe I’m just some woman having a mid-life crisis? I suddenly think I can do a new job, then I think I can chat up the boss, then—”
“You’ve been chatting me up?”
“I don’t know what I’ve been doing.”
“You want to stop?”
Camila smiled. “No.”
****
Climbing out of the car, Camila hadn’t been sure what to expect. A huge country pile perhaps? Or a modern Grand Designs house? A gated driveway at the very least. But here they were, in an underground car park beneath an apartment complex. Yes, there had been security at the barrier but there were other cars. Lots of them. Camila gasped for a second. “Wait. These aren’t all yours are they?!”
“Of course not.”
“So where are we?”
“Home.”
“You live in an apartment? With other people living in the building?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I just…”
“It’s nice. Follow me.”
Camila walked with one hand in front of her legs and one hand behind, doing her best to hide the now off-white knickers.
“It’s fine. I’ve seen you already.”
“Oh. Right.”
“And remember I saw you dressed in that see-through mesh outfit too.”
“Oh yes, you did, didn’t you?”
“I’ve not seen you looking quite as slick though. You might need a hand in the shower.”
Camila stopped. What was she doing? Why was she here? It was one thing to close your eyes and imagine another woman, but something else entirely to actually go there. To shower together? On a Thursday morning? That didn’t happen. Or did it? Was there a whole world of excitement out there that she’d never experienced? Well of course there was. There were holidays and ski trips and adventure sports. Could sex in the sho
wer with Harriet be likened to an adventure sport? Quite possibly.
“I’m joking!” said Harriet, holding open the door that led out of the car park.
“Right,” said Camila, continuing her self-protecting forward shuffle.
“Unless you want to of course?”
Camila stopped again. “You have to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting into my head. These might be little throw away comments to you, but now I’m standing here seriously considering the possibility of getting in the shower with you.”
“Is it on your bucket list?”
“It wasn’t, no.”
“Do you want it to be?”
“Again, said in the most flippant of fashions.”
“Sex doesn’t always have to be serious, Camila. You can just have it.”
“And then what?”
“And then if it’s good you might have it again.”
“Oh no! Now there’s the pressure of a poor performance.”
“Camila. Can you please just take twenty steps back.”
Camila glanced behind her.
“Not literally! Just chill out. Calm down. You need to get clean. That’s all that’s happening here.”
“It is?” said Camila, not believing a single word.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Showering for the second time that day, Camila marvelled at the difference in her surroundings. Yes, Harriet didn’t live in a huge house but she did live in a rather swanky apartment. Swanky in terms of its open plan and minimalistic decor. It wasn’t massive, but it gave the illusion of space. This shower for instance, in the corner of the fully tiled bathroom, no shower screen or glass cube boxing you in, just a powerful shower head, with space to move around. Camila sluiced the water through her hair and thought: Harriet would definitely have sex in here. She checked the bathroom door: still locked. Harriet wouldn’t be having sex in here today. Camila smiled. Had she really contemplated leaving it unlocked? Maybe for a millisecond before sensible reasoning kicked in. She and Harriet couldn’t have sex. It just wasn’t right. Not in terms of the moral aspect, which didn’t exist, or even the boss and employee aspect, which did exist but could be got around, but more the – why on earth would they? aspect.
But at the same time, why on earth was she even here? Why had Harriet come to find her? Why had Harriet insisted on bringing her home? There were so many questions she wanted to ask but their conversation always took them elsewhere, as if the real attraction, the real draw, was simply talking to one another. When they’d walked into the apartment, for example, she should have gone straight into the shower, but instead they’d ended up on a tour of the space, despite her greasy, grubby state and the apartment’s pristine appearance. Harriet had insisted on throwing a towelling dressing gown around her and walking her through the rooms, showing as little material regard for her home as she had for the Mercedes, which was strange given her reaction to the missing Lamborghini.
Camila knew she’d have to address it, but under the warmth of the shower it was easier to focus on all the positives. Take Harriet’s office for example, actually the cosiest and most personal area of the place. There was row upon row of books ranging from fine art to ancient literature and few of the typical business publications you’d expect to find in the home of someone like Harriet Imogen Pearson. What also surprised her was Harriet’s confirmation that this was it; it was the only property she owned. There was no chalet in the French Alps, or cottage in the Lake District. No villa in Spain or condo in Florida. This was where Harriet spent her time. Obviously she said she travelled a lot and spent time in hotels, but in terms of worldly possessions, this seemed to be it.
Camila smiled to herself. That Harriet continued to surprise her seemed to ignite her feelings of intrigue further. She’d been expecting glitz and glam and maybe even a whole host of framed accolades on a wall, but there’d been beautiful paintings instead, some that were clearly originals, but a lot that were simply well known prints. A row of Georgia O’Keeffe’s, for example, lined the wall that led from the open-plan lounge into a bedroom, the brilliant colours of the magnified flowers becoming more intimate with the last one at the bedroom door being her famously sexual Grey line, with Black, Blue and Yellow. This had led on to an interesting discussion about the artists they both liked. Harriet had been engaging and thoughtful, and seemed to have very similar taste to her own.
Having glanced through the bedroom door, however, Camila realised they had very different taste in bedroom décor. The room, even from the doorway, appeared to contain only a large bed adorned with silky gold sheets and walls that were dark crimson. Definitely a sex room. Camila tutted at herself before squeezing more body wash into her hands. Why was she thinking about sex again? Maybe that was the guest bedroom? There were a number of rooms they hadn’t been in so maybe the room that Harriet chose to sleep in was more like her office? Personalised and thoughtful. Camila rubbed the soapy liquid into her skin. Where would be the best place to have sex? In a personalised and thoughtful room that had soft throws and pretty cushions, or under those silky gold sex sheets?
Frantically foaming up the bubbles, Camila shook her head. Why did she keep having these sex thoughts? She and Harriet were colleagues, friends maybe. That was all. Yes, Harriet was a gay woman, but she wasn’t. She was straight. She fancied men. Yet here she was finding herself increasingly attracted to Harriet. Why? Was it that Harriet didn’t have a huge television taking up a whole wall in her living space? The only screen visible being the small one in the office that Harriet said she used to watch the news whilst she was working. But why was that endearing? Just like the row of cookbooks in the kitchen. They’d managed to warm her heart too, maybe because she’d imagined Harriet as someone who would always eat out, or at least have a private chef, but the image of her with music on, preparing food from scratch as she sipped on a glass of wine was appealing somehow.
Maybe this whole thing was just the excitement of getting to know someone new? Camila rubbed a particularly stubborn smear of grease from her left shoulder. Who was she kidding? This thing with Harriet was layered. It was an excitement she’d not felt in a very long time, perhaps ever before. A chemistry that she couldn’t quite place. An illicitness that when you looked at it in its purest form wasn’t illicit at all. She was technically a free agent and Harriet appeared to be a free agent too. So why not just go there? Well, she wasn’t even sure if Harriet actually wanted to go there, and if Harriet did want to go there would she actually let her, because if Harriet went there it would mean she’d have to go there too. Reaching for the razor blade that was resting on the shelf next to the toiletries, Camila changed the head and decided to shave just in case. She’d put the head she was using in the bin and pop Harriet’s back on. Girls shared things. It would be fine. Plus, Harriet wouldn’t want to feel her leg stubble.
But why would Harriet even be feeling her stubble? Why would it even get that far? Camila gently swiped the razor up from her ankle, careful to avoid her cut knee. Better to be safe than sorry.
“Are you okay in there?” came the shout.
“I’m good,” said Camila, honestly meaning it. She was cleaning up nicely and she felt confident, such a far cry from the wallowing of last night. Strange how the actions of one person could change her demeanour completely, meaning the whole period of despair must have been predominantly about Harriet after all. She could handle Pamela from Insights and the bitching on floor five, but what she hadn’t been able to handle was the distance from Harriet, the idea that the connection was all in her mind. It was similar to that quote she’d seen on Facebook once: Sometimes I feel like we’re friends, sometimes I feel like we’re more than friends and sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all. “Can I ask you something?” she shouted, before angling the shower head towards the wall so she could hear Harriet more clearly.
“Fire away,” came the reply.
“Why didn’t you come in y
esterday?”
“I did. In my red stilettos.”
“What time?”
“Just gone three-ish.” The pause was long. “Why?”
Camila shook her head. How could she explain this? How could she even justify this to herself? If only she’d been patient. If only she’d trusted Harriet’s word that she’d be in. Harriet was a few hours late and meanwhile she’d morphed into a psychotic single white female. Camila corrected herself, no, it was the fact that Deana had been claiming to know Harriet’s schedule. Deana had said she definitely wasn’t coming in.
Turning the water off, Camila slid down the tiled wall next to the door. The wet room was warm with steam and it was nothing new for her to sit naked on the floor of a shower, only this time she wasn’t squashed into a plastic tray and this time she had proper things she needed to debate, things that actually mattered. “How come you told Deana about the car?” she asked. “The Lamborghini.”
“She deals with the leasing firm. Deana can’t actually drive. I think it’s her vicarious thrill to have me fulfilling her fantasies. It’s harmless... so far.”
Camila leaned her forehead against the door. “Is this your way of telling me you have history?”
“We don’t. Not like that anyway. I own the Merc, that’s why I don’t mind it getting dirty but Deana thinks I should be seen in something more jazzy… again probably because she likes me driving her around in something flash.”
“Do you drive her around a lot?”
“No, and this isn’t about that. She’s my number two, we go to the odd meeting together, but that’s why I was angry about the Lamborghini. It didn’t belong to me and it’s important to look after other people’s things.”
“I’m sorry it got stolen.”
“Obviously it’s not great, but the leasing company has insurance for that sort of thing. Deana had to know because she’s in charge of the cars.”
“Did you say anything else to Deana?” Camila knew she had to be careful. There was a fine line between natural curiosity and psycho suspicion.