#Toots

by Linh Le James

  Blame It On The Aperol

  Ingredients

  Ice

  90 ml gin

  30 ml Aperol

  30 ml lemonade

  Prosecco

  1 orange slice for garnish

  Fill a glass with ice and add gin, Aperol and lemonade.

  Stir to combine. Top with prosecco.

  Garnish with an orange slice.

  Serve immediately.

  Carla

  Monday. Mezmeerize UK office. 9.30 am.

  I slept through my alarm this morning and woke up two hours late. Emily was still asleep when I picked up some clothes and tiptoed out of the room. Lola had already left the flat and thoughtfully put a pot of coffee on. I had no time to have a drink nor go to the gym, though. I just left after picking up the files I brought home on Friday night – and didn’t have the motivation to work on all weekend. I spent most of it with Freddie, and our frolicking all of Saturday night left me seriously sleep-deprived. There was no catching up afterwards either, as Freddie’s idea of a lazy Sunday is playing on his PS4 uninterrupted apart from hourly breaks for food or energetic sex.

  In my office, a colossal pile of work taunts me.

  Freddie struts in, youthful and fresh faced as always, my coffee in hand.

  ‘Hey, sleepyhead. Don’t stress about being late. Rich was looking for you. I took it on me, said I forgot to log your dentist’s appointment in the diary. I cleared as much of your inbox as I could, but there’s a bunch of stuff that only you can sign off on. Aman, the dev guy, wants to see you this morning at some point. He says the plan you gave him is not achievable. HR says there a complaint has been lodged about the food smells from your office – I think your salmon from last week. Rich wants to have your input on the video pitches from Thursday. You look tired, albeit still gorgeous. Too much Pilates this weekend?’

  ‘Freddie, I think you should just have my job,’ I whinge, burying my head in my arms. ‘I can’t handle it. And my back hurts from Em’s lousy air mattress – and too much you-know-what.’

  ‘Yep. Pilates. Bad for your back. Gratifying in other ways, though,’ he concurs, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Another matter. I thought you’d better hear it from me. Sebastian – what are the chances? – saw us leaving Federico’s tattoo parlour very much as a couple. The new rumour now is that you dumped Rich for me. Or that you might be hooking up with me behind Rich’s back. And that you’re getting a tattoo because you’re going through some kind of mid-life crisis.’

  ‘I do not need this crap right now. Do people know you’re related to the CEO?’

  ‘Some do, yes.’

  ‘Bloody great. So now they’ll assume I’m being promoted because of you! I can’t have people thinking I haven’t earnt my place! That my position is obtained by anything else than sheer hard work!’ I cry in agitation. ‘I have so much to do; I can’t deal with this right now. I must talk to Rich before the rumour gets to him.’ I make for the door but Freddie pulls me back.

  ‘Calm down. Rich walks around the office like he’s got blinkers on. He never gossips. You’ll just make it worse. The people who talk are losers. Anybody whose opinion matters knows what you’re worth. Relax,’ he adds firmly as I wrestle with him and the door handle. ‘Otherwise I might just make you.’ He moves dangerously closer to me, an unmistakable thirsty look in his eyes. ‘Why do you have to smell so darn good?’

  ‘No. Not here. Please,’ I plead as Freddie crushes his mouth on mine and his hand finds its way between my legs. ‘Freddie, no. People will see us!’ I implore feebly, my resolve dissolving like icing sugar in water as soon as he starts to work his magic on me.

  ‘Not through the door they won’t, unless they have X-ray vision.’ His thumb draws light circles on my clit as he reaches deep inside me with his index and middle finger. Lust rages through my body, so ferocious that I have no option but to give in. I hook one leg behind him, hoist myself up and grab his hair. I bite my bottom lip to stifle my cries as his strokes quickly bring me to a compelling climax. Afterwards, he meets my gaze for a few seconds, his expression one of the utmost self-satisfaction. He licks his fingers then gives me a parting slap on the bum.

  ‘There you go. Happy to provide a helping hand whenever needed,’ he articulates in his most professional tone as he bows, sashays out of my office and closes the door behind him.

  Carla

  Same day. 1.45 pm.

  I have been so busy that I haven’t had lunch yet. Freddie has been AWOL for the last two hours. The fragrance brief he last handled is nowhere to be found. Jana from the Singapore branch is still in the office waiting for my instructions.

  I basically told Aman, the dev guy, who wanted to put new escalation processes in place for the IT team, to get stuffed during the morning meeting. Rich gave me a bollocking about it.

  There’s a menacing dark cloud hovering over me. My body hurts in places I would rather not think about. I’m ravenous and have a caffeine withdrawal headache looming.

  Freddie texts me.

  ‘Come to the video room now.’

  I reply, fuming.

  ‘No. We need to do some work!’

  He shoots back, cool as a cucumber.

  ‘Come. Here. Now.’

  The little smutty smug.

  He took a two-hour lunch break and now expects – no, demands – a quickie in the video room.

  I have a shedload of work to do. I haven’t had the chance to finalize the admin assignments. The new lipstick line campaign hasn’t progressed, as Maria’s been off sick for a week and Mark’s on holiday. Grrrr. I want to tear someone’s head off.

  Right. I’m going to go and drag his sorry ass back up here. And I’m putting him on a week-long sex ban to teach him not to mess with me in the office. He will learn to respect my boundaries and recognize I have responsibilities and priorities that extend beyond fooling around. I kick my bin on the way out, stomp and curse all the way to the video room.

  The first-floor video room is pitch black. Freddie drags me inside as soon as I open the door and closes it behind me. Before he can hush me, I explode, raging. ‘Freddie! I am not having sex with you again ALL WEEK! And we are NOT going to fornicate in the video room!’

  ‘SURPRISE!’ multiple voices cheer.

  Someone flicks the lights on.

  I blink in dismay.

  A CONGRATULATIONS banner hangs from the wall alongside balloons and rainbow bunting. A cake with a Barbie topper, bottles of soft drink and platters of sandwiches wait forlornly on the table.

  Tess and Maya, who I suspected always had a crush on Freddie, look crestfallen. Sebastian is openly enjoying the drama. The rest of my colleagues look shocked or amused. Freddie gives me a commiserating tap on the shoulder.

  Rich, red-faced, clears his throat and speaks up. ‘Carla, thanks for joining us. I know your promotion was not due until September, but finance gave us the green light last week so I decided to pull things forward. I would like to thank Freddie and Tess for arranging this little celebration, and, er, officially congratulate you on your new position as marketing manager.’

  There is a feeble round of applause. Rich shakes my hand, looking uncomfortable. ‘Well done, Carla.’ He then turns to the rest of the team. ‘Now, shall we all eat cake? I mean eat some cake?’

  Louise

  Tuesday. Fernhill Grange Spa. 9 am.

  A cup of bland blend from the coffee machine finds its way into my hands. How often do I have to complain before Nikki signs off on a proper Nespresso machine? They have one in the manager’s office, reserved for supervisors only, those selfish pricks.

  I would normally pick up a takeaway cappuccino from Joe Privelli’s shop, which advertises its brew as artisan. I’m undecided what artisan means, but it unquestionably sounds Italian and high quality. Artisan coffee is probably to Starbucks what Fortnum & Mason chutney is to Heinz ketchup. No artisan cappuccino today for me, though, as payday is a week away and my bank account is already in the red. The Amster
dam trip was an unexpected expense. This morning reminds me of the time in my life after Roland and before Sergei – I was so poor I would recycle Costa coffee cups to pretend I was bringing coffee from Costa to work, rather than home.

  It’s already 9 am. I decide I can afford to be five minutes late for my first client. I stretch lazily and check my horoscope and Nick’s on my phone.

  Cancer: good week to invest in a home. Make sure to read the fine print.

  Scorpio: You might be very house proud. Some people you would like to impress could visit your home this week.

  There are no bank accounts in my name with any funds to invest in property. The horoscope therefore hints at my getting hitched to Nick at some point and becoming a homeowner by proxy. Excellent!

  And Nick’s horoscope must allude to me staying over at his flat.

  Aahh. Life can sometimes be nothing less than perfect.

  I am busy googling photos of vegan meals I can post on Instagram and pass as my own creations – #mycooking #yummyvegan – when a familiar voice startles me.

  Turning around, I see Nick talking to Emma.

  What the hell is he doing here? How does he even know where I work?

  ‘Hi, is the manager in? Can I see her, please?’ Nick asks, beaming.

  ‘She isn’t in today. She doesn’t work Tuesdays.’

  ‘Oh, I must be confused. When I left this morning, she said she was going to work,’ Nick explains.

  ‘Who are you again? Can I leave a message for Nikki?’ Emma replies, grabbing a notepad and a pen.

  ‘Who’s Nikki?’ he enquires.

  I run to the front desk, fast as lightning. ‘Nick! How wonderful to see you! Emma! Thanks for your help. Please see to the rest of the customers. I couldn’t do without you. Well in line for that next raise! And keep up the team spirit!’

  I steer Nick towards the relaxation room. ‘Nikki is my assistant manager. She covers for me when I’m not around. A pearl. She doesn’t work on Tuesdays. I instruct my team to defer all customer complaints to her so I can focus on top-level management. Emma must have thought you had a grievance of some kind.’ I laugh uncomfortably.

  I told Nick I was a spa manager rather than a therapist. I never imagined he’d show up here someday.

  Holly corners me before I can get rid of Nick. ‘Louisa! Here you are. Your first client is here! Manicure and pedicure. She’s waiting at your station.’

  ‘Great! Thanks, Holly. You’re an amazing contribution to my team. Can you please send the supplier to my office?’ I command briskly.

  Holly blinks. ‘What? I have a facial to do myself. See you later.’ She waves and wanders off.

  ‘Louisa. You never cease to impress me. You’re a very inspiring manager. Your employees must love you,’ Nick enthuses.

  ‘Thank you. I have a busy day ahead. Lots of meetings. With suppliers, customers, staff. Hectic, hectic, hectic.’ I shake my head apologetically. ‘Could we see each other tonight at yours?’

  ‘Sure! I must meet up with a solicitor not far from here. Thought I’d come in and say hi. If you can get back early enough, we could bake a batch of those black bean brownies together.’

  ‘What? Brownies?’

  ‘Like the ones you posted on Insta yesterday. I have no idea how you find the time to cook. You’re a rock star.’

  ‘Aaah. Yes, of course. Duh! The vegan black bean brownies.’ I hit my forehead. ‘I actually brought some for my team this morning.’

  Mwah ha ha ha. We have some mini brownies in today from the kitchen as cake of the day for the customers. What a lucky coincidence!

  I go to pick up a couple, wrap them in a paper napkin and confidently hand them over. ‘Enjoy! I’ll see you tonight. Let me see you out.’

  As we proceed towards the exit, a terrible thought hits me. What if Nick is vegan because he is allergic? To sugar, flour, meat or such? Not because he cares about slaughtering Babe, Shaun the Sheep, or Daisy the Cow but because he gets ill from eating them? Those non-vegan brownies could kill him!

  ‘Actually, Nick, I have to take the brownies back. You can’t have them.’

  ‘Why? They look so good!’ Nick asks, surprised.

  ‘They’re vegan but they have white non-organic sugar in them. Highly poisonous. I had nothing else left in the house, so I just had to make do.’ I can’t take the chance of Nick ending up in A&E. Whenever we’re in a restaurant he’ll always dissect the menu and grill the waiter, to confirm whether the risotto has been cooked in vegetable stock or chicken stock. There must be a health reason behind all this. He must be allergic to non-vegan foods.

  ‘For once, it’s OK. I haven’t had time for breakfast this morning,’ Nick protests, holding on to the cakes.

  ‘I’m serious! It’s totally processed sugar! And it’s probably the fruit of child labour in Eastern Europe! From the seas in Eastern Europe!’ I pause to ponder whether sugar is produced from the sea, similar to salt.

  ‘Sugar canes from Eastern Europe? Child labour?’ Nick frowns, mystified.

  ‘Sugar canes, yes. You’re right. And the sugar might be contaminated with all kind of non-vegan ingredients like nuts and stuff. I never trust processed sugar.’

  A middle-aged lady in a robe timidly approaches me. ‘Are you Louisa? I was wondering when you’ll be starting my treatment? It seems like we’re late and I’m worried about my massage, which is booked for ten.’

  Could really do with a fag right now.

  I snatch the brownies from Nick and dump them in my client’s hands. ‘The cakes are for customers only, Nick. Sorry.’

  Jess

  Wednesday. My office. 2 pm.

  ‘Jess! Tell me more about the conference. How was Belgium? I’d love to go. Brussels is supposed to be so romantic. Or is it Bruges?’

  Shneck has been driving me insane all morning. Her head pops up over the desktop divider like a crazy Jack-in-the-box every ten minutes with a random question about the conference last week. She’s clearly desperate to find out whether anything happened between Albert and me.

  ‘Did you guys go out to dinner? All the three of you? Or just you and Albert? He’s good fun, Albert, isn’t he?’

  ‘The problem with travelling with colleagues is you end up talking shop all the time. Did you two talk about work or co-workers? Anyone in particular?’

  ‘How was the flight? Did you all sit together? Where precisely?’

  ‘Did you have time to do any shopping? Did you buy any Belgian chocolate? What about Albert?’

  I’m dying to hit Shneck over the head with my flat screen next time she sticks it over the divider.

  Shneck then hogged my favourite table in the break room at lunch time – the one right in the middle, from where you can hear all the gossip.

  Shortly afterwards she had an insanely loud and undignified conversation on the phone with her mother about hanging plant pots and her psoriasis, effectively ruining my lunch as I am in the cubicle next to hers. Shneck receives all her personal phone calls at her desk rather than on her mobile – I suspect, to prove to her colleagues she has a life. In reality, the only person who ever rings is her mother.

  Shneck turns up the air con. ‘It’s hot in here. Let’s open the windows too to let some fresh air in.’

  I could kill her.

  The office is freezing all year round. Come June, no matter what the outside temperature is, the air con is turned on and runs full blast till October. Shneck is the main instigator. It must be all those layers of adipose tissue keeping her warm. Or is she trying to prove to everyone she’s hot-blooded? As soon as she leaves the room, I rush to close the windows behind her and put the thermostat up two degrees. Being passive-aggressive is the only way to deal with Shneck.

  Albert catches me at my desk as I don’t duck in time. ‘Jess, fancy going for a café au lait?’ He pronounces it kafee aww lett

  Shneck turns up from nowhere and pipes up with obscene enthusiasm before I can reply. ‘Yeah! We should all go together!’r />
  Lord, does she have no self-respect at all?

  ‘Sorry. Too much work on.’ I mumble.

  ‘Maybe later, then. See you around!’ Albert ignores Shneck and skips off. He does a little heel click jump and looks back over his shoulder to check if I’m watching him, only to meet Shneck’s amorous gaze.

  Shneck, her shoulders sagging, gives a sigh. ‘Jess, if you knew the dating world out there. It’s a jungle. It’s the law of the meanest and fittest. You’re so lucky to be settled down with a nice husband and kids…’

  I choke on my drink. Nice husband, eh? I suggested yesterday we watch The Voice together. Scott spent the whole time at the other end of the sofa, his laptop perched on its arm, intermittently watching boxing interviews and replying to Rosie the Ginger Dinner’s WhatsApp messages on his phone. He clutched the damn thing all evening, so I never got the chance to confirm who he was messaging, but I just knew. Then Mia got out of bed twice in the night, and not once did he offer to tuck her back in.

  Fucking bastard.

  ‘…I know I come across as happily single, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, it’s great being free to spend time on my hobbies and dating is quite fun…’

  As far as I know, the only dates Shneck ever has are with EastEnders and a pack of chocolate digestives.

  ‘But I just wish…’ She trails off, sending a pining look in Albert’s direction. The latter, thumbs hooked in his braces, is chatting animatedly to the young receptionist.

  I shake my head scornfully. Men. Doesn’t this one half thinks he’s the bee’s knees?

  ‘Shn— Pat. Do you really want Albert? Are you really willing to play hardball in the dating game?’

  ‘Of course! Do you have any advice for me?’ she asks eagerly.

  ‘Write. Everything. Down.’

  Shneck grabs the pen and pad I hand her.

  ‘Sort out your hair. Nobody likes a bob. Especially a greying brown bob. Remember, roots are an evil curse the gods afflicted on womankind, but we have tools to fight them. So, dye your bloody hair. Maybe blonde. Or at least deep chestnut. Get extensions. Lose some weight. At least a stone. Any time you want to eat some chocolate just repeat, “I’m not a dog, I don’t need treats”. Push-up bras. Properly fitted so you don’t get back bulge. High heels. And learn not to walk like a penguin in them. Lots of make-up. When I say lots, I mean enough for your mother not to recognize you when you walk down the street. Talk less. Actually, don’t talk at all. Learn to nod and look interested in whatever the guy has to say – even if it’s sports or his digestive system. Buy everything from Topshop, and not the maternity section. Wear flattering colours – anything dark. Consider Botox. Wax that upper lip. Or, for that matter, anything else hairy on your body—’