by Matt Dunn
An email pinged into his inbox – Paul from legal, asking if it'd be okay to bring passport photos of his ex to stick on the bowling pins. Nathan laughed, and replied with a 'sure', wondering whether he should do the same, then he remembered he'd deleted all the photos he'd taken of Ellie when it became clear she wasn't coming back, and that she'd actually been seeing whatever-his-name-was behind Nathan's back for a good few months.
He'd found that out when he'd hacked into her Facebook account to read her messages in an attempt to understand why she'd said 'no', and though he'd got some satisfaction from changing her status update to 'Ellie Robertson has been cheating on her boyfriend' then changing her password so she couldn't delete it, recently, he'd begun to feel a little ashamed of his actions. Which was progress, he supposed.
Though it was the only progress he had made. While Nathan knew that after three years he should be ready to date again, he simply hadn't felt like it. And while he told himself that was partly because he hadn't met anyone who measured up to Ellie, in reality, he hadn't allowed himself to meet anyone at all. At some point, he realised, he'd have to bite the bullet and start asking women out, and (like going through the foot-bath at the swimming pool as a kid) it would be unpleasant but necessary if he wanted to dip his toe in the water, let alone manage a few lengths, but exactly when that point would come, Nathan wasn't sure. In the meantime, he had to get today – and tonight – over with first.
With a sigh, he slipped his phone into his pocket, collected his crash-helmet from the hall table, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed out into the street.
Across town, Mark Webster was squinting out of the window of his Bermondsey flat, his thoughts not on how unusually sunny it was for a February morning, or the impressive City skyline, or even on what he was going to pick up for breakfast from the bakery on Borough High Street on his way to work, but (as his thoughts were quite often nowadays) on Seek's marketing manager, Julie Marshall. He wondered what she was doing right now; probably getting ready for work, like him. Maybe she was just about to step into the shower, perhaps perspiring lightly after her morning run, her chest heaving as she peeled off her skin-tight running shorts... He shook his head to get rid of the rather delicious image that had just popped into it, and took another sip of orange juice.
Mark was in love with Julie. He had been for months, especially since they'd kissed in the taxi they'd shared after the office Christmas party, though he knew if he were being completely honest he should really say he loved her. Being 'in' love suggested some degree of reciprocity, and as far as he could tell, Julie didn't even remember the kiss. She certainly hadn't mentioned it the next day, and while Mark could have taken that as a bad sign, Julie had said she couldn't remember much about the entire night. Hadn't even referred to the 'pass-the-balloon' game in the pub he suspected had led to them locking lips in the back of the cab later. Although she'd seemed relatively sober when they'd played that.
He could still remember the soft, warm, overwhelmingly delicious sensation of their lips touching, the taste of her, even. And while that taste had been primarily cranberry juice, thanks to the half a dozen Cosmopolitan cocktails Julie had reportedly drunk that evening, it was one he'd been keen to revisit at the earliest opportunity. Only there hadn't been an opportunity, and Mark had been too much of a coward to engineer one, particularly since a part of him worried she might be pretending to not remember anything just to spare his feelings.
In actual fact, she'd so not mentioned it that Mark had begun to doubt that the kiss had actually happened. He certainly wasn't confident enough in his recollection to have brought it up himself, or told anyone else at the office - not even his best friend there, Nathan Field. But that was all about to change. Today was the day he was going to lay his cards on the table, remind Julie what had (hopefully) happened between the two of them, and – assuming she didn't recoil in horror, or accuse him of sexual harassment - ask her out.
Probably.
Mark worried opening up to her was a risky strategy. They had to work together, after all, and if Julie rejected him... Well, he'd just have to deal with that. But the alternative was to spend the rest of his days wondering what might have been, and besides, faint heart never won fair lady, or even brunette one in Julie's case. One thing he knew was he didn't want to miss his chance, then run the risk of perhaps watching her meet, go out with, and even fall in love with someone else. And if there was a better day than Valentine's Day to tell her how he felt, Mark didn't know when that was.
Besides, he had to say something today, if only because the last seven weeks had been torture, mainly because Mark couldn't work out why Julie hadn't said anything. He didn't think she had a boyfriend (or a girlfriend, especially given the way she'd pounced on him on the cab's back seat that night) but he couldn't be sure. Julie always seemed pretty guarded in the office. Not one for idle chat. All he actually knew about her was that at thirty (he'd checked her payroll records for her date of birth) she was three years older than him; she lived in Chiswick in a large, red-brick building (because that was where the cab had dropped her, and because he'd revisited her house using Google Street View several times since that night); and (thanks to the time he'd 'accidentally' bumped into her coming out of the Nike store at Oxford Circus carrying a new pair of Air Pegasus running shoes) that she was training for the forthcoming London Marathon. It wasn't much to base true love on, perhaps. But in a way, that mysteriousness just added to her allure.
For the hundredth time that morning, he checked the Valentine's card he'd bought her was still safely hidden inside his briefcase, as if worried someone might have sneaked into his flat while he was shaving earlier and stolen it. He'd spent ages on Saturday choosing one, hanging around in Clinton's for so long the staff had begun to give him funny looks. One – and she must have been his mother's age – had even come and asked if he needed any help, and Mark had blushed, told her about the 'pass the balloon' game, explained what had happened in the taxi afterwards, then mumbled something about needing a card that conveyed 'fancying' rather than 'love'. The woman had backed away slowly, and looked at him as if he was mad.
He'd ended up in WH Smiths, where things hadn't been any clearer. All the cards either had dedications of eternal devotion on the front (which was probably a bit forward under the circumstances) or some jokey cartoon-type design involving soppy-looking teddy bears, which Mark thought was inappropriate, as he didn't want Julie to think he wasn't serious about her - or twelve years old. In the end, he'd settled for one with a classic design of a single red rose on the front, and 'blank, for your own inscription' inside - though what on earth that inscription was going to be had turned out to be another problem. He'd already decided he wasn't going to sign it, and he couldn't refer to the kiss – not if Julie didn't remember it, or even worse, was trying to forget it - so in the end, Mark had decided to keep it simple, and fortunately, the name of the company they both worked for, Seek Software, had come to his rescue. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more 'From your Seek-ret admirer' had seemed like a stroke of genius, conveying both a clandestine thrill and that it had come from someone in the office.
He'd tried signing it with his left hand to disguise his handwriting, but had made such a hash of it he'd had to Tipp-Ex the words out, and then worried it had looked as if he was re-addressing a Valentine's card someone else had sent to him, so he'd had to go back to Smiths and spend another two pounds forty-five on another one. Not that he'd minded that much - Julie was worth it - but this time he'd taken no chances, and signed it using his proper hand. So what if she recognised his handwriting? That was the point, wasn't it - that the person you'd 'anonymously' sent the card to actually knew who it was from? Otherwise he might as well have just left the money on her desk.
Mark had considered adding another little clue, too, wondering whether some reference to their taxi ride to Chiswick - or the big tip she'd left the driver - might jog her memory, but he'd worried mentioning wh
ere she lived might make her suspect he was some kind of stalker, plus any reference to 'big tips' could make him sound like a pervert, and he knew he had to give himself a back-out option in case she was offended, or (even worse) uninterested. 'Plausible deniability' was the American term - although given how intoxicated Mark was with her, if Julie did confront him angrily, or accuse him of taking advantage when she'd been drunk, he wasn't sure how plausible he'd be able to appear.
He'd been sober, that night, or rather, sober-ish. Certainly not too drunk to remember every detail about the kiss, or where Julie lived, or how she'd called him a gentleman when he'd offered her the first taxi that had come along, and then, when she'd suggested she could drop him off on the way, he'd insisted on seeing her home safely instead, and at that, he thought he'd seen something flicker in her eyes. He hadn't dared to hope for an invitation in 'for coffee', which had been just as well, but the goodnight kiss Julie had given him had electrified his senses like the strongest of espressos, and before he'd recovered, she'd stuffed some money into his hand for the fare to Chiswick, and bolted from the taxi through the rain to her door. The cabbie's 'where to now, Guv?' had jolted him back to reality, as had the discovery he didn't have enough money to pay the driver to take him home. Mark had ended up begging to be dropped off back in Soho, and while the subsequent two mile walk back to his flat in the rain had ruined his suit, it certainly hadn't ruined his evening. Though Julie's reaction (or lack of it) at work the following morning had ruined every day since then.
Initially, he'd suspected she was just playing it cool, but as the weeks had progressed, Julie had become something approaching sub-zero, and Mark just couldn't work out why. He wasn't a bad kisser – her reaction in the back of the cab had proved that – so had she simply been drunk? Well, so what? Mark believed the old adage that drink brought out your true personality, and if it had made her want to kiss him, he had to take that as an encouraging sign. He also knew there was one way to test out that particular theory, and tonight's Anti-Valentine's party, with its free cocktails, could be the perfect opportunity.
He finished the last of his orange juice, and stood up purposefully. If Julie told him she couldn't date someone at work, well, he'd just have to resign himself to the fact. Or resign. That would show her he was serious.
Or crazy.
Mark smiled to himself as he rinsed his glass out and placed it in the dishwasher, suspecting he might be a bit of both. For the final time that morning, he made sure Julie's card was in his case, then he walked out of his flat, closed his front door carefully behind him, double-checked it was double-locked, and made his way towards the station.
Over in Chiswick, Julie Marshall had been in the shower, but right now, as she did every day since she'd hit the big three-oh last September, Julie was examining her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She wasn't in bad shape for her age, she knew. Nothing was drooping, sagging, or, as far as she could tell in the morning light, going grey. Which she was grateful for, under the circumstances.
A noise from the letterbox startled her, so she padded along the hallway and picked up what looked like a credit card statement and a copy of the Boden catalogue from where they'd just dropped onto the doormat. No Valentine's card this year, she noted. Though Julie supposed she shouldn't be surprised.
She'd already been out for her run – with the London Marathon only two months away, Julie knew she couldn't afford to miss any sessions – and while she suspected the mileage she was putting in wouldn't be quite enough to get her round the course without the occasional rest stop, the training was at least benefiting her in other ways, not in the least the half a stone she'd lost since she'd first begun, some six months ago. Stepping on the scales after her shower just about made up for having to drag herself out of bed at six thirty, but then again, she had nothing else to lie in for, and in truth, she was pleased to have another excuse to spend some time out of the house. Besides, it made her usual mid-morning muffin from the Pret A Manger across the street from the Seek Software office all the more guilt-free, and Julie reckoned she could do with a few guilt-free pleasures nowadays.
She'd been puzzled on her run today. It had been a typical freezing February morning, so cold it had almost hurt to breathe, and yet as she'd concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other while trying to avoid stepping in anything, she'd noticed the Chiswick streets had been unusually busy. It was only when the third Interflora van driver had honked his horn and leered at her that Julie had twigged the reason for this pre-work frenzy of activity, and she'd almost laughed out loud at the futility of it all.
For the rest of her run, she'd fought an insane urge to tell everyone she passed on the pavement that Valentine's Day was a complete waste of time. Far from being the most romantic day of the year, it was simply a marketing event, and the people it really made happy were greetings card manufacturers, florists, confectioners, and restaurant-owners, but given how she worked in marketing, Julie knew she couldn't be too critical. And in actual fact, she was more angry about how all it really did was promote the myth that this was the day where men could make one desultory gesture which excused them from being romantic for the rest of the year, as if a hurriedly-bought bouquet of half-wilted carnations from the local BP garage on their way home could excuse a history of indiscretions, or a lifetime of forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, or even a lack of simple chivalry. And in her experience, discreet, thoughtful, chivalrous men were few and far between. If you didn't count Mark Webster, that was.
Not for the first time, Julie found herself thinking about the office Christmas party. She hadn't wanted to go in the first place, but an already-tipsy (thanks to the bottle of champagne they'd been sent by their design agency) Sophie Jones - her number two in Seek's marketing department - had cajoled her into it by quizzing her as to whether she had something better to go home to. And when Julie had thought about it, the answer had been 'no'.
She hadn't been that drunk. Sure, she'd had a couple of Cosmopolitans, but Julie's Scottish ancestry meant she could hold her drink. And then, when someone had suggested that ridiculous balloon game... She smiled, and shook her head at the memory. The things grown adults got up to after a few drinks. And passing a balloon from one end of a line of people to the other without using your hands was just, well, childish. But Julie had been the new girl, and she hadn't wanted to get a reputation for being stand-offish, so when her turn had come to take the balloon from where it was lodged between Aisleen from personnel's thighs, she'd dutifully knelt down and, to much whooping, grabbed it under her chin. Standing up triumphantly, she'd turned around to see who she should pass it on to. And there, standing right in front of her, was Mark Webster.
They'd stared into each other's eyes for the briefest of moments, then Mark had moved towards her and - she felt a little frisson of excitement at the recollection – slowly lowered himself until his face was level with her chest, then he'd gently taken the knotted end of the balloon between his teeth, all the while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on hers. Julie had found it incredibly erotic, and knew there and then they'd kiss. Although not, of course, in front of everyone.
But then he'd had to pass the balloon on to Mary from admin, who'd subsequently burst it – on her stubble, someone had said a little too loudly from the back of the room (and rather cruelly, Julie had thought, although her nickname of 'hairy Mary' in the office wasn't without foundation) – which had sent Mary running out of the pub in tears, and of course had meant the end of the game. And just as the balloon had burst, so too had Julie's bubble, and all thoughts of kissing Mark had vanished.
Until later, that was, when they'd found themselves outside, waiting for a taxi in the rain, and Mark had insisted she took the next one, and she'd insisted they share it, even though she lived in Chiswick, and he... Well, it hadn't seemed to matter to him – or her - where he lived.
Julie had been sure they'd flagged down a black cab, but the driver must have thought they were in some kind of
racing car, or perhaps he'd simply been keen to get back to the centre of town and another lucrative fare – Christmas party season meant for rich pickings, after all. In any case, a particularly violent cornering manoeuvre at Marble Arch had thrown her almost into Mark's lap, and that was when it happened. One of those kisses. Tentative at first, before building in delicious intensity into something that could potentially have lasted the rest of the night.
Almost immediately Julie had feared it wasn't a good idea, though that hadn't been enough to make her break away, but fortunately when they'd eventually come up for air somewhere around Shepherd's Bush, Mark had seemed almost bewildered, and from then onwards, it had been easier to pretend to be drunk. Not that it had been easy for her to resist kissing him again, but she'd known that would have been a mistake. Once she could have written off as an accident, but twice? That suggested intent. A promise of things to come.
Afterwards, watching West London whiz by through the taxi's half-steamed up window while trying her best to act as if the kiss had never happened, she'd almost had to sit on her hands to stop herself from grabbing Mark again. She was a great believer in kissing. Too few people were good at it. Most of the men she'd known seemed to count it as foreplay, and therefore something to get out of the way rather than as a pleasure in itself, but Mark? He'd seemed in no rush whatsoever. Julie would have been happy kissing him for hours. And she'd suspected he felt the same way.
When the taxi had reached the end of her road, Julie had been tempted to tell the driver to carry on to Mark's place, but at the last moment, she'd chickened out - after all, she wasn't that kind of girl, or at least, was pretty sure she wasn't. And so she'd quickly kissed Mark goodnight, forced herself to ignore the alluring smell of his skin and the enticing, manly feel of his stubble against her cheek, then she'd stuffed a handful of notes into his hand for her share of the fare and sprinted out of the cab. And though it had been raining hard, in truth, the cold shower had been welcome. The following day, more than a little embarrassed, Julie had decided to play it cool - after all, she knew nothing about Mark - so when he'd 'accidentally' bumped into her at the photocopier and awkwardly asked whether she'd had fun the previous night, she'd claimed alcoholic amnesia. To his credit, Mark had almost managed to keep a straight face, but Julie could tell he was crestfallen, and she'd felt terribly guilty.