Two Night Stand: A fun, festive read - perfect for the holidays!

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Yes, because I have time to have a love life,’ I reply sarcastically. ‘I’m seeing my friend tonight for a drink, for the first time in weeks. I definitely don’t have time to go on dates.’

  ‘Really?’ Damian replies, narrowing his eyes at me for a second. ‘Because it sounds like you’re saying you’re going out drinking two nights in a row…’

  He leans back in his chair, smiling smugly. As handsome as Damian is, smugness is not an attractive look on a man, as far as I am concerned. Luckily for him there are women (usually much thinner ones who wear way less clothing than me and have far looser morals) who find his arrogance really attractive.

  He’s dressed down today, which I envy. It’s not that I think Damian would ever tell me what I could or couldn’t wear, but I’ve never been one for going out of the house in my sweats. Damian looks good no matter what he wears. He’s very stylish, even when he’s dressed down in a pair of trackies and a hoodie – I don’t suppose it hurts that they’re always designer – which means that, no matter what he wears, he looks as if he should be on the cover of GQ magazine. His style is very much his own, which makes him seem all the more attractive, and then there’s that certain something he has…

  Damian has long-ish brown hair, which he always blows back, designer stubble and big brown eyes. He looks like a movie star – in fact, people often mistake him for Jake Gyllenhaal, but that might have something to do with the fact that he’s treated like a celebrity. A lot of people have no idea what he’s famous for but assume he must be a star.

  ‘Let’s talk work, shall we?’ I say, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got a list of jobs for you to do today.’

  Damian pushes a piece of paper towards me. Skimming it confirms the usual list of boring jobs he often gives me. I sigh subtly.

  ‘You’ve reminded me about Christmas gifts – I’ve done all your Christmas shopping,’ I point out.

  ‘Not all of it,’ he says. ‘I need a present for you.’

  I smile but only for a second.

  ‘You want me to buy myself a Christmas present?’

  ‘Look at it this way, at least it will be something you want,’ he says.

  ‘Well, there’s that,’ I reply.

  ‘I do have some work-work for you today,’ he continues.

  ‘Oh?’

  It’s been a long time since Damian’s last exhibition and people are starting to wonder what’s going on. Apparently, he’s got some sort of creative blockage.

  ‘I’m scrapping everything we’ve done so far,’ he says. He’s done this a few times already, for the new exhibition he’s planning. The first time I was in shock – all that work! – but I don’t bat an eyelid now. ‘I need some new subjects. Some more worthwhile subjects.’

  I gasp theatrically.

  ‘The underwear models weren’t worthwhile?’ I ask in disbelief.

  He frowns at me for taking the mick.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know where I thought that was going to go,’ he says. ‘I thought they might have some depth.’

  ‘So, what are you thinking now?’ I ask.

  Damian is a portrait photographer but his pictures have always said so much. They’ve packed powerful punches, hidden messages; he’s made political statements, given voices to victims. He’s putting a lot of pressure on himself lately but, I have to admit, his last few shoots have felt so empty, and the harder he tries to find or create worth in an image, the emptier it seems.

  ‘Can you find me some prostitutes?’ he asks with a bizarre yet not entirely surprising level of casualness.

  ‘You definitely don’t pay me enough for that,’ I reply almost instantly.

  ‘No, not for me,’ he says with a scoff. ‘Obviously not for me. For the exhibition. I want real, interesting women with real things going on, stories, darkness, struggles. I want to give them a voice.’

  ‘We both know you can get girls to sleep with you for free, just promise to take their photo afterwards, before, during – whatever,’ I can’t help but tease.

  Damian laughs, but only for a split second. He takes things so seriously sometimes.

  ‘Come on, Sadie, this is serious. I’m struggling.’

  I nod.

  ‘I’ll try my best,’ I lie.

  ‘Maybe search online?’ he suggests.

  ‘Yes, sure, I’ll search online, that’ll work,’ I reply. It absolutely won’t. Damian doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm.

  As we move on to chatting about what the day ahead looks like I secretly wrack my brain for alternative ideas for Damian’s next exhibition. I mean, I doubt he would even accept one of my ideas but, if I could come up with something good enough, perhaps there’s a way I could make him think it was his idea? I do that all the time with smaller things. Things like leaving parties early, stopping drinking, being fussy about who he gives his number to…

  Of course, I have no idea what I could suggest, but I’ll have to think of something. I suppose I could give it some thought while I’m buying myself a Christmas present. And I’ll tell you what, the harder it is to come up with something, the better my present for myself is going to be. I’ve definitely earned it this year.

  Chapter Four

  I was so excited for my first non-work night out in weeks that I spent ages getting ready.

  It’s December and it’s bloody freezing. This suits me just fine though because, as far as I’m concerned, more is more when it comes to clothing. It’s rare that I have much skin on show, and I’m not one for wearing tight-fitting clothing. I know it sounds weird, and aggressively feminist (and the fact I feel as if I need to justify it is exactly why we need feminism), but I like to keep my body relatively under wraps. I express myself through my outfits and my creativity, and I want that to be the reason people are drawn to me, rather than because I’m wearing a tight, short dress. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with people wearing whatever they want, and I would never judge anyone for wearing what they want – how can I, when I’m wearing a trilby hat, as I am tonight?

  Overthinking how I dress is yet another horrible side effect of working for Damian. He shoots a lot of women in their underwear – he’s completely desensitised to it now – so if women want to get to him, they feel as if they need to compete. For them, less really is more. And Damian being a man – a famous man with an endless supply of women to choose from – he’s there for it. Briefly, of course, because it’s always only a matter of time before I’m having to sit these girls down and tell them Damian doesn’t want to see them anymore. But I think that’s largely why I like to wear lots of clothes. I don’t want to compete.

  I’m wearing my long hair down, which means it covers a fair bit of my long, floaty dress. I’ve teamed it with a black trilby hat, a black leather jacket and enough gold bangles to sink a ship.

  My friend, Xara, looks absolutely fierce. Despite the icy cold weather outside she is wearing a bikini top under a pair of retro dungarees. Her hair is scraped up into a massive messy bun that seems to defy gravity on the top of her head. She looks fresh from painting someone’s bedroom – although squeaky clean, with flawless make-up. Her workshop chic outfit is offset with shoes and a bag that probably cost more than my rent.

  Tonight we’re in a super trendy bar called BÆ – no, I don’t know how to say it either – having our first catch-up in weeks. Xara and I met when we worked in the same museum gift shop. We actually quit a matter of days apart, to move on to different jobs, but she's made much more career progress than I have.

  ‘We really should do this more often,’ Xara says as she gestures at a waiter to come and replenish our drinks. ‘It’s insane, how busy we both are, all the time.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But it’s so nice to see you doing so well.’

  ‘Aww, thanks, doll,’ she replies. ‘I complain about the hours but I really am loving it.’

  Xara is an audience development manager at the super prestigious Ashworth Gall
ery. It’s her job to get people through the door and, while she is great at it, it’s the Ashworth. People are always going to be walking through the doors. I would love to be doing something like that – especially in such an amazing gallery.

  ‘I’m working on something at the moment that is going to knock your socks off,’ she says excitedly.

  We’re interrupted by my phone lighting up on the table.

  ‘It’s just Damian,’ I say. ‘It won’t be important. If it is, he’ll text.’

  ‘How are things at your work?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I reply. She does know. I whine to her about Damian all the time. ‘Same old same old.’

  ‘We need to find you a new job,’ she says.

  ‘I know but where am I going to find such a good job in the industry?’ I reply.

  Xara smiles smugly.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘What if I knew about a job going?’

  ‘Where?’ I reply in an instant. ‘Not at the Ashworth…’

  Xara nods.

  ‘No! Tell me more,’ I insist. ‘Tell me everything!’

  ‘We’re looking for an assistant curator,’ she says.

  My jaw drops.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’ I squeak.

  ‘Tonight,’ she replies excitedly. ‘I thought I was going to have to get you more drunk first, to convince you to apply.’

  As I ponder why she thinks I might need convincing my face falls.

  ‘They’ll never hire me,’ I say very matter-of-factly.

  ‘See, I knew you’d say that,’ Xara replies. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why would they?’ I reply. ‘There must be so many people so much better suited for the role. People with more to offer than me. I’m basically a babysitter.’

  ‘For Damian Banks,’ Xara adds. ‘Let me put you forward, I—’

  ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ a man’s voice interrupts us.

  We both look up, expecting to see the waiter, but instead we find a pair of twenty-something twin brothers standing there.

  ‘Hello,’ Xara says, lighting up. Well, these two are tall, skinny, gorgeous, ultra-cool-looking. They’re identical in all ways apart from their hair. Their style is the same but one has a bleach blond do while the other’s is jet black.

  ‘We were just wondering if we could buy you ladies a drink,’ the blond says.

  Right on cue the drinks we ordered previously are placed down in front of us.

  ‘We already have drinks,’ Xara says. ‘But I’m sure we’ll want more, if you’d like to sit and chat with us?’

  It’s only after Xara suggests this, ever so flirtatiously, that she glances over at me, silently asking me with her eyes if it’s OK, although I’m not sure what I could do about it now.

  I smile at her. I’m more than happy for them to join us, although I am slightly terrified. It’s been a long time since I spoke to a man who wasn’t my boss (or a man doing my boss’s dry cleaning) without a Post-it Note to hide behind.

  The twins are called Bry and Albi. Bry, the blond, has sat down next to Xara. Albi has taken the seat next to me. We all sort of chat together for a while before naturally pairing off.

  ‘So, what’s your story, Sadie?’ Albi asks.

  He’s leaning in close to talk to me. So close I can smell his aftershave. He seems really interested in talking to me and that’s just not something I’m used to these days, I guess.

  ‘Well, I’m not from London, I’m a northerner,’ I practically confess. I didn’t have a strong Yorkshire accent to begin with (not in Yorkshire, at least) but, living in London for so long, working with people who all had the same accent, it wasn’t long before I adapted out of necessity to try and remove all traces of it. I do feel like a bit of a fraud though.

  ‘My brother and I are Italian,’ Albi says. ‘Well, a quarter Italian, on our mum’s side. We were born here. You can probably tell by looking at us.’

  My drink is more Italian than Albi and Bry, but I don’t say that of course; I smile and nod.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I start, but I don’t get to finish. My bloody phone is ringing again. It’s been ringing and buzzing constantly while we’ve been chatting. When it first rang I pulled it out from my bag and quickly silenced it when I saw that it was Damian. I told him that I was out tonight so he shouldn’t be calling me. But then he tried again, and again, and again.

  ‘Do you need to answer that?’ Albi asks. He sounds a little frustrated.

  ‘No, no,’ I insist. I leave it at that because I’m not sure the truth does me any favours.

  ‘Anyway, you were saying?’ he prompts.

  ‘Yes, I was saying… what was I saying?’ I wonder out loud.

  As my screen lights up again, this time with a message, I look down at it almost suspiciously. Could something actually be wrong? As I lift my phone to see who the message is from, my Face ID unlocks it, revealing the message for both me and Albi, who is still sitting intimately close to me. It says:

  Any luck finding us a prostitute?

  I know Albi has read the message too because he instantly pulls away from me.

  I just lock my phone and place it back down on the table, although I'm not sure I'm going to be able to style this one out. Well, I’d try to explain, but I’m not sure he’d believe me.

  ‘Er, bro, let’s, er, let’s go get another drink,’ Albi prompts his brother.

  It takes a couple of seconds for the twintuition to kick in.

  ‘Right, yeah, OK,’ Bry replies.

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ Xara says once we’re alone again, not realising that was probably my fault. ‘What’s their problem?’

  ‘Put me forward for that job,’ I say confidently. ‘Do it. You’re right, I should go for it. I can’t keep working for Damian.’

  ‘Yey!’ Xara squeaks, doing a little dance in her seat. ‘You won’t regret this, Sadie. You deserve better.’

  Yes, I do. I still can’t imagine them choosing me – because it’s such a competitive industry and I’m just, well, me – but I have to try. I feel as if I’ve sold my soul to Damian. This could be my way to get it back, to get my life back. That’s got to be worth a shot, even if I am terrified. Things can’t go on as they are. It’s time something changed. Whether Damian likes it or not.

  Chapter Five

  Sitting on a massive sofa, with a home-made porn star martini in one hand, a Hawaiian pizza on a plate on my lap, Netflix on the massive 150” screen in front of me – this is the life.

  It isn’t my life, of course, it’s Damian’s.

  I was halfway home from work when he messaged me, saying he had an emergency, asking me if I could pop back and let myself into his flat, because he had to go out right away but had an important delivery coming. I sighed and immediately turned around. At least he pays me generous overtime, and it’s not as if I have a thriving social life, is it? I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that Albi, the guy I met last night, never came back.

  I remember, six months ago, when Damian was looking for a new place to live. Of course, he needed me to help him, because he struggles to make any decision on his own these days. It’s as if the longer he goes on without putting any work out, the more he questions everything he does.

  We were flat-hunting between Knightsbridge and Belgravia. Obviously I knew that property was going to be very expensive, but I had no idea just how little your millions get you in terms of square footage in that area. After viewing all the places the agent had to show us in Damian’s price range we both chose a favourite and, of course, we picked completely different places.

  My favourite was the two-bed cottage, quietly situated in a quaint pedestrian mews in Knightsbridge. It was so spacious, boasting gorgeous oak flooring on the ground floor, a separate kitchen with large skylight – it even had a little garden. Upstairs it had two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was exactly the kind of house I would love to live in, if I could afford it, which, let’s face it, is never going to hap
pen. It’s nice to dream though.

  This property wasn’t Damian’s favourite. It was actually his least favourite. Damian wanted something modern, high up, with big glass windows and absolutely zero charm.

  In the end he went for a contemporary two-bed corner apartment with an open-plan living space. Which is where I am now. It is gorgeous, with floor to ceiling windows, and views overlooking the River Thames. It’s undeniably amazing, especially with all the tweaks he’s made, and all the cool tech he’s installed. It’s not an awful place to do overtime consisting of nothing but enjoying the facilities and waiting for a delivery.

  I was ever so slightly annoyed when the important delivery arrived and it turned out to be a new TV – God knows where for, because he only bought his living-room TV a couple of months ago – but I’m having a great time eating pizza and watching an absolutely gripping true crime documentary. Why are we all so obsessed with true crime TV at the moment, and why is it that, the crazier the story, the more we love it? Things like Tiger King and Don’t F*ck with Cats are the new water cooler talk – forget Game of Thrones and Killing Eve. No one wants to talk about fiction when real life is even wilder.

  I’m currently watching ’Til Death Do Us Part, a five-part documentary about a man called Terry Mackie. The show follows in his footsteps as he prepares to marry his fiancée, Joanna. Terry is in his late forties while Joanna is in her late twenties – but that isn’t the most remarkable thing about their relationship. Joanna is actually Terry’s fourth wife, because the previous three all met their grizzly ends shortly after tying the knot with him. There is no denying that, in each case, the deaths were incredibly suspicious, but despite it seeming as though Terry might have something to do with the demise of each wife (either because he killed them, or because he’s some kind of jinx at the least), no one has ever been able to charge him with anything. Terry is a really interesting chap. He’s a self-made multimillionaire, living in a monstrously huge house – he could give any woman the most amazing life… until they wind up dead, obviously. The documentary follows Terry and Joanna in the run-up to their big day, planning their wedding, going through the motions. It’s such a compelling watch. You can’t take your eyes off Joanna; you’re just waiting until she has a skiing accident or falls down the stairs or has some other freak accident…