Pearced

by Ryder, H

  TC: “Who are you my Mother now?” Traitor, I sigh heavily shaking my head, at the thought there could be two!

  PF: “Friends Tharie, we should be able to say what needs saying without repercussions” she's not wrong though, is she?

  TC: “It wasn’t my intention to miss food, I was carried away in my own little world of indigo...” ahhh, denim, better than gravy. Mum's right, I am random.

  PF: “...and daydreaming about Daniel?” Spooky isn't she?

  TC: “I can’t lie, he may have popped into my head once or twice, I like him” understatement of the year.

  PF: “Nice arse too” what is it with her and arses?

  I fail miserably to keep my best friend in the loop about my lingering feelings for Daniel, I am such a bad friend, certain nuances of the evening as played in my head, would keep her amused for days. So intoxicated was I by being in proximity to him, bloody hell I say to myself, I’m screwed.

  PF: “Next time wear something other than jeans!” She scolds, is she kidding?

  And before I can answer...

  PF: “And no cartoon knickers either Tharie, for pity sake, you're not a teenager any-more” thankfully.

  TC: “I love Spiderman Pete,” I say, in a playful tone, “and jeans are crucial to my windswept and interesting Gothic look, what would you suggest, dresses?” Anything but that, no, I don't mean anything.

  I pull a face with my tongue out, strange how gesticulating on the phone where the recipient can’t see you seems to be common.

  PF: “A little colour wouldn’t hurt.” that old chestnut again “and lipstick.” Yuk, just like my Mum!

  TC: “I wear black and denim, it's just how it must be” thinking I’d scored a point, the people who sit around me smile at their screens at my conversation, shaking their heads. Has my Mum spoken to them too? I'll grill them individually later.

  PF: “And Daniel?” she probes further spinning me back to the call, “what do you plan on doing about that handsome, wealthy, sexy, available piece of arse?” See? Arses again.

  TC: “Pete, how would you know if he's available, or sexy, he's not your type?” I laugh at my gay friend.

  PF: “Honey, I’d tear up my whole rule book for a piece of that gorgeous male, makes me shiver just thinking about it.” Shameful. “Besides, I’ve done my homework, you know I know everybody.” she really does.

  TC: “Shameful, shameful.” I scold, “Leave the boys to those of us who know what to do with them!” I tell her amusingly, “Not that I’d want to...” back pedal, back pedal – too late!

  PF: “Ha! You like him” I squirm as I realise she right, and she usually is, “fallen for the model physique, chiselled features and come to bed eyes?” She is laughing on the other end of the line, but I have to admit there appears to be a strange attraction to this man, yes, he is very nice indeed, and hot.... brain!? Stop it, and I snap the band around my wrist. Focus. It works, for now.

  TC: “I wasn’t close enough to notice his eyes” I lie.

  PF: “Bloody liar” busted.

  TC: “That’s all I’m prepared to take from you Pete, I get enough critique from Mother” true bloody story.

  PF: “Love your Mum, how is Eve?” Am I a bad daughter?

  TC: “She's waiting for her book to be published, anyway, it's all about me today, what should I do?” Tell me to forget him and focus on the weekend.

  PF: “That’s easy, screw him. But brush your hair and no comic pants, promise me Tharie.” I promise. “And don't buy anything called 'pants.' If it doesn't have the word 'lingerie' on the box in scrawly posh text, leave it alone.” bloody hell, she's harsh.

  Note to self, buy new pants, bloody hell, I mean lingerie. That's French isn't it?

  I would have been insulted and said so without a second glance back, but she is right, I need help. Sliding my finger across my screen I end the call with Pete, and begin daydreaming which is not like me, not like me at all. I walked right into this life of his for a quick look around, kept my eyes low and tried not to look directly at him. He hadn't see me in that bright bar, why should he? I’m quite plain looking with, messy brown hair. Grey as 'cloud filled with rain' coloured eyes, and I don't wear any make up. The idea of smearing or smothering my skin with any kind of topical beauty application fragrance free freaks me out, I get tight chested and claustrophobic.

  Note to self, try to talk to yourself less, people catch you doing it and they think you’re weird!

  They'd be right wouldn't they?

  Let's get that kettle on shall we?

  There I go again.

  Chapter three, Monday:21ndoctober2013, the middle part.

  I’m bored.

  My interview is at 4pm today and I’m going to the west end for some research espionage style...that's my cover story.

  EC: “It’s your Mother here, you may recall my face” here we go.

  TC: “Hello Mum” I mean it too, every word.

  EC: “Have you heard from Henry?” My Brother is worse at calling than me, or am I just hoping?

  TC: “No, he’s still on tour isn’t he?” Hoping I’m remember correctly.

  EC: “Back yesterday, for a break Catharine, at least he calls me” oh dear, in trouble now. When aren't I?

  Deep breaths everyone.

  TC: “I’ll call him later Mum, I’m busy now.” I love her you know.

  Mothers!

  EC: “Of course you are, always so busy.” Walk a day in my shoes…forget that, can’t bear the idea of letting anyone wear my shoes, Yuk!

  Back to this afternoon then.

  RANDom is the newest hottest denim brand around today, born in California like all the best denim and metal music. Started by two brothers Daniel & James Pearce, and brought home to London.

  Nobody knows who they are, few photos suddenly appear in magazines of either one of them but the rumour is these are just paid models to front the copy. Some say they don't exist and that RANDom is just a subsidiary of another strong brand, but denim-types like a story to their brands, so the mystery surrounding the brothers makes for good chat in the business, and since their jeans are almost impossible to find let alone buy, their alusivity turns people on. The vague idea that there's more to this label than smoke and mirrors, makes the brand even stronger and more sought after.

  I have smuggled in a change of clothes, thank goodness for the deep trough that's my Burberry bag. My favourite jeans of course and my 'this seasons' collection over the knee Chloe boots. They roll up very small in case you're wondering.

  Outside the building I wave down a black cab, tell him my destination, he checks his GPS, not even he knows where it is, practically unheard of for a black London Taxi, and he is cross at himself for the failure. But he has an idea, so he heads towards the east end of London, Hoxton is it? I can’t seem to read a map, it's like a foreign language, I can’t speak those either. I speak horse and cat, does that count? Who am I asking when I do that?

  Note to self, stop talking to yourself, I get me, that's the point.

  TC: “Henry, hear you’re back in town, hope all OK, let’s meet up soon.” Hopefully not an evening I have to work the next day, can’t draw with wine flu!

  HC: “Sis, great to hear from you, Mum has called me, she’s worried about you, apparently you don’t eat properly.” How would she know that, or does she just mean I’m vegetarian?

  TC: “And you do?????” Liquid dinners yes.

  HC: “She has no idea!” Thank goodness.

  TC: “She’s always worried about something” true story.

  HC: “You fell of George” ouch, true story.

  TC: “Not for the first time H, no biggie, I bounce” it still hurts, and I wince at the reminder.

  HC: “Me too! Take care Sis, catch you at the gig Hx” can’t wait.

  Later in chapter three, Monday:21ndoctober2013, another part.

  I’d rather have a life story of' oh wells', than 'what if's', so I head to my meeting in a confident mood. I know my
subject, better than anyone, I can’t explain why or how, that’s just the way it is. Denim found me, I wasn’t looking for a project or a theme to my work, but my intense dislike for all fakeness and fleeting moments forced my hand. Unsubstantiated claims, temporary motifs and unlikely icons left me with denim. I pitched my wagon the only 'real' thing in fashion. The honest, the old and the good, denim. Its anti-establishment aura gives it a coolness which usual fashion-types just don’t get, that’s why denim-types get left alone, it's a nasty job for a girl from the smart side of town, but I am not her, I love the honest stuff. Denim doesn’t jest or fall from grace, not prone to mood swings, fleeting trends or eras in fashion as all the other departments are concerned with. Denim-types just laugh at all the running about frantic to find the newest things to develop that surrounds their daily life.

  A design room is a nuthouse of well dressed, great smelling suitably beautiful and neurotic types who think what they do in their own world is the most important thing in the world, when the truest, realest, oldest and newest thing is denim. Denim will never fade, (except when we want it to), there are those who cyclically claim it does, but this only strengthens our brand because denim loves it when the grown-ups don’t love us any more, it means we're doing a great job and on the right track, we’re rebellious and naughty..

  …am I talking to myself again? Bloody hell, speak to Dr Shrink about this, is she back in the country?

  I wonder suddenly, I think to myself, what this Daniel will be really like?

  ...well, I am about to find out aren't I?

  “Driver, can you please pull-over at that Pret, I need tea? Thank you, want one?”

  Chapter four, Monday:21ndctober2013, the middle part, keeping up? This part is current, no more time travel.

  I have to call Daniel I have 7...no, 8 missed calls on my phone from him and I haven't even checked my email, what should I say?

  PF: “Still OK for later, you won’t believe what I’ve got to tell you” another new Porsche I bet.

  TC: “Yep, can’t wait to hear the thing you won’t tell me on the phone” nothing beats a Landrover, but I promise to oooh and aaahhh for my friend.

  PF: “Don’t even try guessing” too late, she wants a white one next.

  TC: “A face to face, must be important” true story, Pete is not good at holding news in usually, she’s a let it all out and deal with it type. Quite the opposite of me.

  PF: “See you later” OK.

  I am coming down the glass lift with a cup of tea in one hand, my phone in the other, a great view over the canal. I sometimes sit by the waterfront watching the ducks during lunch, just to get away from all the stupidity from upstairs. I don’t have the head for politics, I don’t care enough to worry about where I stand in their schemes, I just know I do what I do, better than anyone, they like me, but they don’t get what I actually do at all, and that’s a strange type of power. Happy in this thought I sit myself on a wooden slatted bench beside a barge, a trail of grey smoke swirls into the air, the smell of a wood burner coming from inside. I love that smell. I pull my parka tight around my body it almost goes around me twice. Sip my tea, whose lid is not quite keeping it hot and watch as a pair of geese swim past with their almost grown-up babies. Taking my phone out I attempt to placate everyone by at least answering some text messages.

  It's hard being me.

  TC: “Daniel, sorry I haven’t replied to your messages, I’ve been swamped” not exactly true, but I did make lots of tea today, I look down at my cup, yes lots of good work done today.

  DP: “Drinking tea takes priority then? Well at least I know what’s important to you” how the fu..?

  I almost drop my tea…well almost. I grip the cup tighter just in case.

  I have the feeling someone’s close by. “Hello.” And Daniel sits next to me on the bench, casual and confident, smelling great, with a huge warm friendly smile. Trying to keep the shock from my face but my mouth is still open from being about to take a slurp of tea when he appeared, he offers his hand to me, but I’m struck with silence, not at all like me. My lips part but no sound comes out, I look at the hand I suspected is reaching out to shake mine but instead he is offering a large bag of giant chocolate buttons...also a favourite of mine. Such a contrast, this manly man, smelling great with tattoos and a car waiting offering me Cadbury's chocolate buttons! I glance numbly at my phone, still mute, like me, and put it away.

  "Daniel,” I try but fail to hide my surprise, “what are you doing here?" I take a few buttons, well? Not even I have the will power to say no to Cadbury's buttons...

  "You didn't return my calls or e-mails,” he puts a button in his mouth...that mouth, stop it! “I came to offer you buttons as a consequence." A chocolate punishment eh? I must try to piss him off more often then.

  His face smiles with a warmth that makes me wonder if he is genuinely worried about me. And shoves a few buttons into his mouth, that gorgeous mouth...stop it...again! Bloody hell, I can't even recall a dressage movement. "Oh...yes, I just didn’t want to call you until I was certain what to say Daniel, it's a big move."

  Really? You don't even believe that Tharie. Stop talking to yourself. You don't want him knowing you're weird. Least, not yet anyway.

  "From this..?" He looks up at my huge glass building, where I work on the 5th floor, and back at me. He is right, there's no comparison, what was the real reason for not committing myself to this project. I looked at him directly, that answers the question for me. But still I hear very feint warning bells in my head, yes, quite distant really.

  Note to self, find out how to disengage that alarm like all the rest. Can't bear anything that beeps, buzzes or rings. True story.

  He takes my hand in his, back to the moment, waves to his driver he'll just be a minute, "please, Tharie, come and work with me, we'd be good together I can feel it can't you?" His words catch in my throat, swirl around my head, Ping-Pong around a bit more and dissipate away.

  "OK," I answered feebly, “I’ll hand my notice in today.” I take a few more buttons, well I’m only human.

  "Great, I’ll see you tomorrow." Daniel gets up to go, deal done.

  I stand, "I have to work my notice Daniel,” I say to his retreating back, he turns briefly back to me, I’m gesticulating madly with my phone, “three months with some holiday due I might get it down to two." I am suddenly frantic that he'd be disappointed and find someone else. But he simply laughs. Ooh, that's nice to look at.

  "Don't worry about that Tharie, my family own this company, and you can leave whenever you want, I’ll make sure you're released from your contract.” Bloody hell. He shoves his hands deep into his Crombie pockets and moves closer to me, we just stand there looking at each other. Then looking down at his feet, and with a low seductive voice, “nobody can really hold you,” he looks directly into my face, those beautiful pools of coolness and aqua. “...anywhere you don't want to be." Unflinchingly calm, he makes the words sound dirty or is that the effect he is having on me? Stunned, as the level of wealth this man must be used to hit me, used to getting his own way I expect too. Strangely I don’t seem to mind that idea either, I never understood the obsession with money.

  G, halt, immobility, salute. Thank goodness, the dressage is back, I'm going to need it.

  He takes my hand as if to shake it, as two of my colleagues walk by to the sandwich shop, staring at this beautiful man at my side. Probably wondering what the hell I am doing with him, perhaps he's lost and asking for directions. I may have some self-esteem issues?

  Note to self, call Dr Shrink for an appointment.

  He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses me gently on my knuckles, quite old-school but I like it. Wonder if he likes the Walton’s? "Congratulations Tharie,” his eyes lift to mine, blimey those eyes, what did he say? Is anyone taking notes for me, brain? “Dinner tonight? My treat?" He stares at me, his gaze not leaving until an answer is given, used to the power he exerts over people, I am determined not to be one of the
m. Then I look back at him and of course I cave, well I’m still only a girl, and I do have to eat, Mum says so remember?

  "Oh, OK." I answer, what am I saying OK to, not just dinner, brain?!!! He's making me feel warm and horny, my sex trembles and my temperature elevates, my nerves start to shake, and before I can utter another word, he drops my hand and heads back to his car.

  Connection broken. Exit at C.

  Calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll pick you up from your cottage at 8pm tonight.” He smiles, a warm gracious sexy smile, “does that give you enough time with the horses?” Did he really ask that? Respect, I like it. He pauses, rushes back to me, stands close to my body, we are touching, I catch my breath, and whispers in my ear, so close that I feel his warm breath down my neck. A chain reaction begins, and cascades through my whole body, “I’m hard for you Tharie.” He moves into me much closer, “right now,” and against my neck in a hot breathy whisper, “feel what you do to me.” I can feel his cock, rock hard, as he moves into me closer still, lightly kissing my neck, before moving away in an instant. Bet he's glad for that Crombie today, my head says all to itself. True story. Plus, it is quite cold.

  Almost without breath I feebly answer, not sure what to say, "But I haven't given you my address!" Now slightly worried, and my body aches for him to touch it, but he's striding away in that purposeful manner, graceful and powerful.

  "I know where you live Tharie, don't worry, I’m a resourceful type." I bet you are. Snapping out of my funky mood as he speaks my name, I recall I have something I need to tell him. I leap up suddenly and try to catch him, just remembering, I have plans tonight with Pete, I’d totally forgotten. Too late to catch him now. She had said she needed to talk to me, I’ll make the call. Resourceful indeed I said to myself as his car slides off noiselessly down the road, a stalker type, but I liked it.