A Day at the Office

by Matt Dunn

  Calum was hurrying back through Soho Square, feeling a little less stressed. He'd managed to find the right power cord in the Maplin shop at the other end of Tottenham Court Road, and seeing as he couldn't remember whether the office bathroom had a shaver point, he'd decided to take the belt and braces approach by buying a plug adaptor as well. It had cost him nearly ten pounds, but that didn't matter - at least now he was sorted. More importantly, he still had half an hour. Plenty of time to finish shaving, complete the rest of his ablutions, and get to the restaurant by six o'clock.

  He turned the corner into Bateman Street, ignored the sniggers at his half-shaved appearance from the assembled smokers outside the pub on the corner, and strode towards his office, knowing he'd have the last laugh. They were stood there, on Valentine's Day, drinking with their mates, whereas he - well, he was off on a date. And despite the fact he'd repeated that phrase enough times to himself to make the words lose their meaning, he still loved the way it sounded.

  He reached inside his coat and into his jacket pocket to where he always kept his key card, then stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't have his jacket on - it was still over the back of his office chair. In his rush to get out and buy the shaver cord, he'd thrown his coat on and sprinted out of the building in such a hurry that he'd nearly knocked Mark Webster flying, not once stopping to think how he was going to get back in.

  A feeling of dread washed over him as he peered through glass panel in the office door - there weren't any lights on that he could see, as far as he knew the cleaners weren't due to arrive for at least another hour, and without his key card, Calum was stuck. He glanced anxiously at his watch, not knowing what to do, then checked his pockets again, even though he knew it was a futile exercise. On the plus side, he had his phone with him, so if it came down to it, he could call Emma and tell her he'd be late, but he didn't want to risk doing that until he actually was late. And while he could still go as he was - he had his wallet, after all - without shaving properly, or brushing his teeth, or bringing the red rose he'd been carefully guarding all day, he worried the impression he'd make would be worse than not going at all.

  He got his phone out and dialled the Seek switchboard number, just in case by some miracle Mia-Rose was still there, then remembered she hadn't been at her desk when he'd left. From where he was standing, he could see the light flashing on the phone on the reception desk, and hoped someone would hear it and come down to let him in, but after a couple of minutes, Calum ended the call. Where was everybody? he wondered, then almost immediately answered his own question. They'd be at Nathan's Anti-Valentine's event by now.

  He scrolled through his phone's menu and found the email Nathan had sent him. SuperBowl was in Bayswater, so all he had to do was get there, get someone's key card, and... Calum froze again. At this time of day, Bayswater was a good half an hour away by taxi, and he didn't dare try the rush-hour tube. He had to face facts - there simply wasn't time to get there and back if he wanted to be on time for Emma... Unless someone could come here, maybe send a key card in a taxi... Perhaps he should call Nathan, and... He cursed under his breath. Thanks to him, Nathan had Mark's phone, and Calum didn't have his number. Besides, from what he could remember about SuperBowl, it was way down in Whiteleys' basement, and a phone-reception-free zone.

  Calum leant heavily against the door and gave it a couple of hopeful tugs, but it didn't budge. He took a step back into the street and looked up to see if there was a window open, then quickly dismissed that idea as ridiculous. He wasn't that good at climbing - ironic, he knew, for someone who'd said he was into adventure sports - plus he didn't want to ruin his trousers, and quite frankly, turning up late because he'd been arrested for burglary wasn't something he thought he could explain away to Emma later.

  He sighed loudly, and took stock of his situation - here he was, half-dressed, half-shaven, and half an hour away from the most important date of his life on the most important date of the year - and wondered whether this was payback. He knew he shouldn't have lied on his LondonDate profile, nor should he have helped Sophie out by doing something as sneaky as switching Mark and Nathan's phones. And he'd been pushing his luck by going to the gym, and waiting until now to shave, and then daring to feel confident on his conference call.

  He looked up at the star-lit sky, thankful that at least it wasn't raining, and wondered whether things could get any worse.

  And as he gave the door one last desperate tug and his back twinged again, they did.

  Julie Marshall was running along the South Bank, checking her progress on the GPS watch she'd treated herself to on her birthday, confident that while her nine-minute-mile pace would hardly qualify her for the Olympics, it should at least it keep her ahead of anyone running the marathon in fancy dress. She'd done a 10K fun run - or rather 'fun' run, given how she'd slogged round – the previous November in Chiswick, where she'd been out-sprinted on the final straight by a man in a gorilla suit, and had resolved there and then not to let it happen again. Especially when the man had crossed the finish line, removed his gorilla mask, and revealed himself to be pushing sixty.

  She kept her head down as she ran, trying not to make eye-contact with any of the male joggers coming in the opposite direction. Julie knew she attracted attention when she was out running - as a woman, it was almost impossible not to, due to the combination of Newton's laws of motion and having breasts. She was grateful for the heavy-duty sports bra she'd invested in, though at the same time, the thought depressed her. How she'd have loved to have been Sophie, spending her money on fancy lingerie at Selfridges, rather than on something with a Nike logo that she'd seen receive a five-star review for 'support' in Runner's World magazine. She almost laughed at the irony - Sophie was hoping her underwear would end up on the floor, whereas Julie had bought hers so her boobs wouldn't.

  Tonight, of course, less than the normal number of people were out pounding the pavement past the Tate Modern. Most of the usual crowd would be foregoing today's training session to get ready for their big nights out, or perhaps they'd be saving their energy for a different type of physical activity this evening. For Julie, the choice had come down to this or bowling. And sadly, this had won.

  It occurred to her she could still go to the Anti-Valentine's night – even with any awkwardness between her, Nathan, and Mark, it would beat sitting on her own in a restaurant. But if Nathan did have feelings for her (and assuming Sophie hadn't managed to work her magic on him in the hour they'd had together), it wouldn't be fair on Sophie, and if Mark didn't have feelings for her, then it wouldn't be fair on him. She wondered whether Nathan had told Mark she wasn't going, and if so, how he'd reacted, though just as quickly she realised he probably didn't care, given how he'd seemed quite happy to sit back and let Nathan have a 'crack' at her today.

  She side-stepped through the tourists making their way into the gallery, and cut right across the Millennium Bridge (or the wobbly bridge, as most Londoners knew it), enjoying the view as she ran across the river, the sight of St. Paul's Cathedral illuminated brightly against the black, cloudless sky taking her breath away more than the cold February night air did. Dodging round a couple holding hands in front of her, she ran down the other side of the bridge, then sprinted easily up the steps towards the cathedral, resisting the impulse to do a Rocky-like celebration at the top, before running back down and beginning the final stretch towards her office. Julie knew she was in good shape, and she should be - these were the best years of her life, after all. It was just a shame they didn't feel like them. But that wasn't her fault, surely? After all, Philip was the one who'd changed. He was the one who'd cheated on her. Though given how that was the case, why was she the one who felt guilty?

  Turning away from the river, she jogged up past Embankment station, crossed the Strand, and ran through Trafalgar Square, scattering the pigeons as she went, then weaved through the theatregoers on St. Martins Lane. Julie loved running through central London, perhaps because it reminded her t
here was so much vibrant life here – unlike the leafy mummy-land Chiswick seemed to have become. She sprinted up Frith Street and turned triumphantly into Bateman Street, where she clicked off her stopwatch, checked her distance and average speed, then almost tripped over Calum, who was sitting on the pavement outside the office, his head in his hands.

  She pulled her earphones from her ears, and switched off her iPod. 'Calum?'

  'Julie!' Calum hauled himself gingerly to his feet. 'Thank god!' he said, fighting a wild impulse to hug her.

  'What's the matter?'

  'I've got a date. In fifteen minutes.'

  'Are you meeting her here on the kerb?'

  'No, I...' Calum was hopping from one foot to the other, as if he needed the toilet. 'I locked myself out. And I need to get back in and finish shaving, and brush my teeth, and get the rose I've bought her, and...'

  Julie noticed his half-stubbled chin, and put a reassuring hand on his arm. 'Say no more.' She un-velcroed the wallet round her arm and removed her key card from where it was nestled behind her iPod. 'Where is this date, exactly?'

  'Old Amsterdam.' Calum followed her towards the door. 'On Charlotte Street.'

  'Okay. That's only two minutes away, so you've got plenty of time. Come on.' She unlocked the door and pushed it open, holding it wide as Calum hurried inside. 'What can I do to help?'

  Calum wheeled round. 'I don't know!' he said, staring wide-eyed at her, so she took him by the shoulders.

  'Relax,' she said. 'Breathe.'

  Calum did as instructed. 'Sorry,' he said, after a few moments. 'I'm fine now.'

  'Right. You go and finish shaving. What else do you need?'

  'Everything's in my briefcase,' said Calum. 'In my office. And my jacket's on the back of the door.'

  'No problem.' Julie smiled. 'I'll collect it all together, then wait for you here. Now take your time. And don't cut yourself shaving.'

  'With an electric shaver?' Calum made a face. That would be just his luck.

  As he disappeared into the toilets, Julie made her way up to his office and collected Calum's bits and pieces, then returned to reception, stretching lightly as she waited for him. When he finally appeared, perspiring more than she had been after her run, Julie looked him up and down

  'Right.' She helped him into his jacket, then held out his briefcase. 'Have you got everything?'

  Calum took the briefcase and peered inside. 'Red rose...' He patted his jacket pocket. 'Con...' He stopped talking, hoping Julie hadn't noticed the condoms, and cleared his throat. '...tact lens solution. I think so.'

  'Great.'

  'How do I look?'

  'Same answer.' Julie smiled reassuringly. 'Now, you've still got five minutes. What's her name?'

  'Emma.'

  'Well, Emma's a woman, remember, so she'll probably be late. So all you need to do is keep calm, walk there slowly, and find yourself a nice table. And Calum?'

  'Yes?'

  Julie gave his arm a squeeze. 'Good luck,' she said, for the second time that evening.

  She held the front door open, then watched Calum hurry along the street, a smile on her face, though it quickly faded. So far, she'd helped Sophie get a date with Nathan, and Calum get to his date with Emma, and what did she have to look forward to? Dinner for one, followed by a miserable night at home.

  She glanced at Mark's door on the off-chance he might still be in his office, but it looked firmly shut, so instead, and with nowhere to go and no rush to be there, Julie carried her change of clothes into the toilets and showered slowly. She knew her situation was her own fault. When it had come down to it, she simply hadn't been able to go all the way with Mark after the Christmas party, and then, when she should have followed it up, something had stopped her. And while she'd have liked to have blamed Philip, in reality, Julie realised it was her problem, and no-one else's.

  She looked at her watch. Six-fifteen was certainly a respectable time to go for a drink, but that would mean drinking alone, and on a night when the pubs and bars around her office would either be full of couples drunk on their love for each other, or drunk on happy hour beer because they were single. Besides, Julie decided, she'd better head for a restaurant instead, otherwise she'd be drinking on an empty stomach, which might make her do something rash, and being drunk and emotional on Valentine's Day probably wasn't the best combination if you were planning to spend the evening ignoring your cheating husband.

  Though the concept of a happy hour was something that appealed. Julie hadn't had many happy hours since she'd found out about Philip's affair, and when she thought about it, there hadn't actually been that many before it either. The people who'd told her her wedding would be the happiest day of her life had been right - if only because every day married to Philip since then had become progressively more miserable. Though the interesting thing had been how a part of her had been relieved when she'd found out about the affair. She'd suspected things hadn't been great between the two of them for a while. And him sleeping with someone else? Well, that had pretty much confirmed it.

  She felt an insane urge to take the lead, call Mark, and perhaps suggest they went for a drink, but then realised miserably she didn't have his number. Besides, he was probably out having a great time at the bowling.

  Her stomach rumbled, so Julie finished dressing, and with a last longing gaze at Mark's door, headed out in search of something to eat.

  Mark Webster was walking along Oxford Street, his hands stuffed into his pockets against the cold. He'd contemplated flagging down a cab and going to join the rest of them at Anti-Valentine's, but the way he was feeling this evening, being around people was the last thing he wanted.

  He turned into Tottenham Court Road, and made his way towards the entrance to the Underground, battling his way through the crowds of commuters while waving away the numerous free newspapers being pressed on him. As he reached the station, he nearly tripped over a fat, dishevelled-looking man sitting on the floor just inside the entrance.

  'Watch where you're going,' said the man.

  'Watch where you're sitting!' replied Mark, crossly, then he immediately felt guilty. 'Sorry,' he said.

  The man looked up at him. 'That's okay. Tough day?'

  Mark nodded. 'You could say that.'

  'Well, whatever happened to you, it can't have been as bad as sitting outside an Underground station in February hoping some kind stranger will spare the price of a cup of tea.' The man picked up an old Starbucks paper cup containing a few copper coins, and jingled it. 'I said, hoping some kind...'

  'Okay, okay.' Mark nodded, and fished in his pocket for a fifty pence piece. 'Here,' he said, dropping it into the cup.

  The man peered into the cup, then frowned up at him. 'You obviously haven't bought a cup of tea for a while.'

  'What? Oh, sorry.' Mark found a pound coin, and dropped that in too, and the man smiled.

  'Thanks. And don't worry. It'll get better.'

  'If only.' Mark sighed as he walked on, and the man rolled his eyes, then he pulled himself up by the handrail.

  'Don't tell me. Woman trouble?'

  Mark paused at the top of the stairs. 'How did you know that?'

  'I'm a medium.'

  'Really?'

  The man held his hands up. 'I know, I know. You're probably thinking I'm more of an extra-large. But seriously, I'm a psychic. And before you say anything, no, not like Robin, or Tonto.'

  'Huh?'

  'Sidekick. Just my little joke.' The man grinned. 'I used to have my own show.'

  Mark peered at him. 'Have you been on TV?'

  'Only the 'CC' variety.' He mimed a 'bum-tish' drum roll. 'But seriously, you're having a problem with the lay-deez, right?'

  'Well...' Mark looked around, feeling a little awkward, but the constant flow of commuters certainly weren't paying any attention as they passed. 'Seriously, how could you tell?'

  The man tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. 'Like I said - psychic. Well, that, plus the fact
that it's Valentine's Day, and you're walking towards the tube on your own wearing an expression like your dog's just died.'

  'Okay,' said Mark. 'Well, thanks for the lovely chat, but I've really got to go.' He started down the stairs, but the man put a hand on his arm.

  'What's your name?'

  Mark frowned. 'Shouldn't you know that already?'

  'Do you want my help or not?'

  'Well, actually...' Mark stared at him, then sighed resignedly. After the day he'd had, he realised he was prepared to try anything.

  The man nodded down towards a hand-written cardboard sign next to where he'd been sitting, where 'Fortunes told - £2' had been scribbled in black marker pen. 'Traditionally, you're expected to pay beforehand.'

  'What - cross your palm with silver.'

  'Something like that.'

  'You'll be telling me you've got a crystal ball next.'

  'No, it's just the cut of these trousers.'

  'Yes, that's very funny.' Mark shook his head slowly as he found another fifty pence in his pocket. 'Here.'

  'What's this?'

  'Fifty pence.'

  'It's two pounds for a fortune-telling.'

  'I've already given you one pound fifty.'

  'That was a donation.'

  'And this is daylight robbery.'

  'No it isn't,' protested the man. 'For one thing, it's dark.'

  Mark rolled his eyes. 'Okay. Give me my money back. This is obviously...'

  'It's a woman, right?'

  'I already told you that,' Mark said, making for the stairs again.

  'And you're not married, and you don't have a girlfriend.'

  Mark stopped in his tracks. 'How did you know that?'

  The man shrugged. 'No wedding ring. And you're obviously on your way home, but without a bunch of flowers, or a box of chocolates.'

  'Listen,' said Mark. 'As... Fascinating as this is, I really have to...'

  'Tell me one thing before you go. Do you believe in fate?'

  Mark thought for a moment. 'What do you mean?'

  'Do you believe that things are pre-destined? That you've got no control over what's going to happen to you. That your life is going to go in one direction, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about that. Fate.'