I felt a brief wave of sadness again. It was like I had lost something when I made my decision to walk away. In many respects, I was grieving for the loss of hope. Hope that one day we could be together. I had spent most of the weekend vegetating in my house and watching old films with a packet of Marlboro Lights and a crate of beer for company.
‘Oh, great – well I can’t wait to meet her. Speak soon,’ Chloe said before sashaying out of my office like a cat. She definitely wiggled her bottom a bit. Definitely on purpose, too. Hmm . . .
Finally, something new and exciting in the office. Even if it was only for a week. It was perfect timing, and the fact that she was leaving soon was also great news. That meant I might actually be able to ask her out on a date, have some fun, whatever. She was on work experience so it wouldn’t contravene my ‘no dating colleagues’ rule, because in a week, she wouldn’t be one any more. Ha.
A small orange bar flashed on the bottom right-hand side of my screen. It was an instant message from Anthony.
‘WHAT DO YOU RECKON?’
Capital letters. The mark of a madman.
I played dumb. Again. ‘About what?’ I replied.
‘THE WORKIE, DIPSHIT.’
How rude. ‘Yes, she seems nice. I didn’t think we were doing work experience any more. Has the policy changed?’
I saw him lean back in his chair and scratch the back of his head. ‘WE WEREN’T. SHE CAME IN THE OTHER WEEK, TOLD RECEPTION SHE HAD A MEETING WITH ME SO I CAME DOWNSTAIRS AND SPOKE TO HER. SHE MANAGED TO PERSUADE ME. YOU CAN’T BEAT DETERMINATION LIKE THAT, PLUS SHE’S HOT, NICK. OPEN YOUR EYES AND ENJOY THE SCENERY.’
Jesus, this was so unprofessional. I deleted the conversation trail and opened a new window. I hated office sleaze and sexist banter and wanted no part of it.
I tried to get back to drawing, but it was a difficult and highly unproductive couple of hours. My mind was cluttered. Where was Sienna? It was reaching midday and she still hadn’t arrived at her desk. In fact, I hadn’t heard from her all weekend and we’d had that awkward situation on Thursday night. I hoped her dad was OK and that nothing had happened.
We spoke at work every day, of course, but I made a firm resolution now. I had to keep some distance. Things were going to change. I was back in the game – I needed to start dating again, find something new to distract me, eat better, exercise more. Change. Maybe I could finally learn how to play the guitar, or join that local football team I’d been thinking about for so long . . .
I looked up and spotted Chloe staring at me through the glass. She quickly turned away when she saw me. That was when it struck me that she was actually quite sexy, and thoughts of Sienna trickled from my mind. But I was keen not to look like the office perv. I drew my blinds and shut the door. Hopefully everyone would just think that I was creating something so amazing it required total silence and solitude to do it. The reality of the situation was that I was drawing circles all over the screen, filling them with random colours, then deleting them, over and over again.
I couldn’t help but think about Sienna and where she could be. Eventually I lowered my head to the surface of the desk and tried to collect myself. Why wasn’t she here? What if something had happened? What if she’d been on a night out and got abducted and somehow no one had noticed yet? What if she’d fallen wildly in love over the weekend with some American guy and jetted off to Los Angeles without telling anyone? Now come on, Nick . . .
There was a quiet knock at the door. It wasn’t Sienna because she had a specific knock and I could tell it from a mile off.
‘Come in,’ I said sadly, suddenly realising how miserable I must sound. I quickly pulled at my T-shirt to straighten myself out and put on a brave face.
The blonde bed hair was filling my doorway once more. ‘Sorry, Nick, it’s me again. Ant has given me a brief for you already, hope that’s OK . . .’ she trailed off quietly.
‘Yes, of course, I should probably do some work, shouldn’t I?’ I chuckled, quickly deleting the window of scrawl I had been creating in my state of paranoia. I think she may have seen it, though. ‘Take a pew.’ I patted my hand on the empty seat next to me.
‘Oh, OK,’ she said, blushing slightly as she started to pull an A4 sheet from a brown envelope.
I put my left elbow on the desk and twisted my body towards hers. She had lovely dimples when she smiled. My eye suddenly caught a sexy-looking bra strap poking out from the top of her dress. It was black lace with what looked like a flash of blue silk. Wow.
‘So, I was on the phone to the company – it’s an outdoor sports group and they’re creating extreme assault courses in treetops all over the country.’
She ran a pale pink fingernail down the page. I wondered how it would feel to have it running down my back. God, Nick, stop it.
‘Tom’s going to try it out and write about it for WeekEnd magazine, so we need some page design and illustrations to go with the photos,’ she continued. ‘Ant wants you to decide the format. We need it by Wednesday 5 p.m. at the latest. Um, I think that’s about it, really . . .’
She turned to look at me and a tingle ran down my back. I squeaked like a teenage boy when I tried to speak. Shit. How embarrassing. She looked down at her lap and smiled.
I finally managed to get the words out. ‘OK, great, thanks for that. I’ll let you know if there are any problems so you can relay them.’ She was fit. Definitely.
‘Fab. Speak to you later.’ She sashayed out of the office again and gently shut the door behind her.
My mind went into overdrive. Sex with Chloe in my office. Door locked, blinds closed. Pushing everything from my desk and onto the floor movie style, including my £3,000 Mac, and lifting her onto it. Yum.
Oh dear God. I was just as bad as the rest of them. Another orange bar flashed at the bottom of my screen. It was Tom. He had clearly not been able to fix his keyboard after my improvement works this morning.
Y+U F*NCY HER, RIGHT? BEC*USE IF Y+U D+N’T YOU *RE DEFINITELY G*Y.
‘Sod off,’ I wrote.
Sienna
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
T.
O.
C.
K.
I couldn’t wait for the clock to strike five today. I had only been in the office a few hours because of a morning interview in town, but the day had still gone very slowly. I was buzzing for the start of my new and improved life, which would involve me being a super sexy gym bunny.
Yup. I was totally ready. Eyewateringly expensive gym membership? Check.
Energy bars? Check. Fluffy miniature towel? Check. Great-fitting gym kit (yes, it is possible)? Check.
On Sunday I’d been to a quiet corner of Covent Garden and discovered a beautifully mysterious dancewear shop. I was able to find some kit that was relatively stylish, didn’t cling to my body like shrink-wrap, and didn’t give me camel-toe. It was almost a miracle.
But it didn’t happen without a struggle. The woman in the shop was scary; in fact, scrap that, she was terrifying. An ex-professional ballet dancer – you could tell the second you looked at her, with her wiry, yet graceful frame and pursed lips.
‘Hello, darling,’ she purred, her jazz shoes sweeping across the wooden floorboards as she swayed from side to side.
Uh oh. ‘Oh, hiya. Yeah, I was hoping—’
‘STOP,’ she interrupted me loudly, a tobacco-scented finger pushed hard against my mouth.
What the hell? I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked terrified. How could I get out of here? I looked left and right, left and right, but she had me trapped between a tall mirror and an exceptionally scratchy tutu. I was half expecting to see the foot of a cameraman poking out from one of the changing-room curtains before he jumped out and shouted, ‘Candid camera!’
‘Are you married?’ she asked, a sharp black eyebrow pointing towards the ceiling. Her lips, which had started to resemble a cat’s bottom, were pursed together to create an effect you only us
ually see in female Disney villains.
‘Er, no, but I don’t know what this has got to do with—’
Again I was suddenly cut short. ‘Why?’ the sharp voice demanded.
‘Excuse me? Why what?’ I responded, starting to get a little defensive now. I only came out for bloody gym kit, not a cross-examination on my romantic failings.
‘Why on earth aren’t you married? You’re beautiful,’ she said angrily, shifting her weight onto her left leg as she looked me up and down.
I blushed. I was angry, flattered and embarrassed all at the same time. And she, I was sure, was totally nuts.
‘Look at you,’ she said, seeming on the verge of fury. She spun the full-length mirror round, confronting me with my own terrified reflection. It was a bit like Trinny and Susannah, but even more rude and humiliating. At least she hadn’t started manhandling my tits yet. Dear God, there was no one else in the shop. She might kill me and sell me to the pub round the corner as cheap meat. But there I was, a frightened thing caught in the headlights of this strange woman’s tirade.
Here were the vital stats. Sienna Walker, 5 foot 7 inches tall, nine and a half stone, long dark hair, black and pink hi-top trainers and a nice, thick-knit cardigan over boy-fit jeans. A fairly regular, run-of-the-mill girl in her early twenties in off-duty London trends. So what?
‘You want to know why you aren’t married?’ she said, leaning close to my face now. The odour of stale Chanel No. 5 bombarded my nostrils. Yuk.
‘Because I’m young, busy and not that bothered?’ I responded with venom. I had clearly found one of these old-school women who felt that life was supposed to begin and end with washing your husband’s dirty Y-fronts with a bar of whale fat and a broken mangle. I don’t think so, missy.
‘No, of course not,’ she shrieked now, flapping her right hand through the dusty air and narrowly missing my nose with a sharp, red fingernail. This was verging on assault, surely?
She walked behind me and I noticed her grey wispy hair was piled into a bun that looked as if it was about to fall off her head. A powder puff, if you will. I should have just stormed out of the shop but I was curious; maybe even a glutton for punishment. What was she getting at?
‘It’s all because of this,’ she uttered in disgust, pulling at the loose material of my jeans and yanking one of the arms of my cardigan, leaving it hanging limply from my wrist.
Then she walked to my left-hand side. ‘And this,’ she continued, lifting a strand of my unkempt hair into the air and dropping it as if it was a rat’s tail.
Well, she had a point. I was looking pretty low-maintenance today, but still . . .
‘It is clothing like this which is an insult to the gift that is being female,’ she said with real conviction. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Sienna,’ I replied, still feeling pretty riled by the intrusion.
‘You, Sienna, are a strikingly beautiful young woman. You have been blessed with a present.’ She ran her index finger under my chin and tilted my face upwards until I could feel the heat of the ceiling light bulbs on my eyelids. I hoped she didn’t talk to all her customers like this.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. I think I should go now . . . I just wanted some gym clothes . . .’ I trailed off, starting to turn towards the door and some level of normality.
‘No. You mustn’t.’
Oh dear. I was definitely about to be made into a burger. No one would know where I was. My face would be on milk cartons all over the country.
‘Why?’ I asked, feeling more than a little confrontational now. I decided I must not be afraid of this woman, even if she did resemble an ancient cut of shoe leather.
‘I want to give this to you,’ she said, pulling a thick drape of velvet away from a corner of the wall and revealing what was probably one of the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life. No joke.
The low light cast dark shadows on swathes of jewel-green fabric. I couldn’t figure out what kind of material it was at the time. All I knew was that it was the kind of texture I’d only dreamed about when I was a little girl, yearning to be transformed into a princess, just like in the films.
It had a sleek halter-neck, which plunged down the middle in a steep V and then met a delicate corset waist section. This then flowed into a rippling skirt, which I imagined would trail behind the wearer like a wedding dress. But it clearly wasn’t a wedding dress. It was a dress of utter temptation. It was sexy, actually. The proportions were perfect, the colour was perfect, the cut was perfect.
And this was a very sneaky sales technique . . . I wasn’t having any of this, I decided, turning towards the door again. I couldn’t wait to tell the girls about my crazy encounter with this woman.
‘What do you think?’ She smiled, beckoning me back.
‘Well, it’s absolutely stunning, but I’m actually only here to get some gym kit, so if I could just have a browse over there that would be great.’ I was trying very hard to be polite.
She shook her head with frustration and rushed the garment towards me suddenly. Swinging it through the air, she laid it to rest in my arms, which I had involuntarily stretched out to ensure it got to me safely.
Her eyes were so illuminated, so alive, it looked as if they might burst into flames.
Layers of green silk rippled in my hands. It took my breath away. It was old but on-trend. Vintage but cutting-edge. Rachel Zoe would have probably chased me down the street and gouged my eyes out with a toothpick for this one. It was bloody gorgeous, and probably hideously expensive to boot.
‘Yes, like I said, it’s lovely. I really have to crack on now, though,’ I said, looking down at it. But love had already taken hold. I had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.
‘It’s yours. I want you to have it,’ she said, her coldness suddenly melting into a warm, broad smile. ‘It used to be mine, Sienna. I fell in love the night I wore it and married him soon afterwards. I’ve been waiting for the right girl to take it on, and you, I just have a feeling about you. I think you need this.’
I couldn’t quite believe I was hearing these words. Didn’t the dear old lady have a daughter or a niece or something? I wondered.
‘Don’t you have family you could give this to?’ I looked at her searchingly as I started to push the garment back towards her. What if she was mentally ill? Maybe I should call the police.
‘No. And don’t ask questions. It’s your size, I can just tell. I want you to take it home, hang it up safely and wait for the right moment to wear it. And I promise you, it will change your life, Sienna. But until the day you get to wear it, whenever you feel down, or inferior, or downtrodden by the world, I want you to imagine you are wearing it. I know things are hard for you, I can tell by looking in your eyes. Whenever things are difficult I want you to imagine you are wearing this dress . . .’ Her eyes narrowed with the sheer passion of what she was saying. I was suddenly aware of a Russian tinge to her accent that I hadn’t been able to place before.
Whether she was driven by lunacy or not, I couldn’t be rude to this woman. I was simply not brought up that way. I also couldn’t bring myself to walk out of the shop with her dress.
‘Listen,’ I said, putting my hands over hers and pulling her down to sit on one of two fold-up chairs, starting to feel genuine concern about this situation. A middle-aged woman walked through the jangling door but instantly fled when she saw we were having some kind of intimate moment.
‘Look, this is so kind of you, and I’m really touched by the gesture. I think your story is lovely and inspirational, and you obviously feel strongly about the importance of being confident. But I just can’t take this. I will, however, take a look at your great selection of gymwear.’ I started to walk slowly to the other side of the shop, running an enterprising hand over the dusty rails and grinning cheesily.
‘Hmm. Fine, do what you want, Sienna,’ she said with an indignant expression. She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs moodily, revealing an ankle
as skinny as a goat’s knee.
Oh, great. I was going to end up pity-buying the whole shop now. Actually, these things weren’t half bad, I thought, as I started to paw through the hangers gently. She must cherry-pick her stock quite carefully. The hangers were old but the clothes were new; there was even some of the Stella McCartney gym range in here, which was hard to get hold of. I hadn’t been too inspired by the offerings in other shops. Too much nasty material, too tight, too baggy . . . This all looked quite nice and made the thought of the gym more appealing.
Right. I could get out of this situation quite easily. I would do my gym shop here. I would take the bags and leave, alive, my new friend would keep her lovely dress, and all would be well.
‘You take your time and have a browse, my dear girl. You know where to find me.’ She disappeared into a dark alcove behind the till, her voice getting considerably quieter as she was enveloped by the blackness.
Trying these things on wouldn’t be a great idea. I just picked out some of the best size 10 offerings and started to pile them up on the counter as I browsed. I could hear my new friend carefully wrapping the items in tissue paper. The rustling sound echoed across the shop and into my ears.
My eyes caught a framed picture of a stunning ballerina. She looked a little bit familiar. ‘Is this you?’ I asked, stepping back in shock.
‘Yes it is, my darling. That was me in my salad days. I was nineteen when that was taken. Never thought I would end up selling dance outfits and gymwear, but still. They had me performing all over the world, you know . . .’ Her voice had grown louder and suddenly she was standing right behind me, both hands resting on my shoulders. A chill ran up and down my spine again, just like it had when my father was passed out on my bed. Again, I was reminded of the inevitable progress of age, and how it transformed a beauty like this one, smudging the edges until it resembled something quite different. Not necessarily bad, just different. It scared me. It made me want to cling on to the moments of my youth and make sure I lived them until there was nothing more to squeeze out of them.
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