The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little pee. According to the internet, it’s apparently great for the skin.’

  ‘A, I don’t want to know what you were googling when you discovered that. And b, I’d prefer not to have it splashed on the skin of my legs, thanks.’

  ‘You know my pin number.’ Vee begins to pull away.

  The reason I know her pin number? So when she forgets it three times a week, she can text me, and I’ll send it to her. The same with her phone number and all sorts of other things. I suppose I’m her human version of KeePass.

  ‘I can pay for a round of drinks,’ I call after her.

  ‘Not on your birthday!’ Without turning to answer, she cuts through the crowd with the speed of one desperately needing to use the facilities.

  ‘What do you want?’ The cute barman suddenly appears in front of me.

  How about a date next Saturday in exchange for free drinks and buffet food, I almost request. Instead, I open my mouth and order a round of gin and tonics.

  Drinks made, I make my way back through the bar, reverse weaving through the tables, my fingers wrapped around my triangle of precious cargo, until I reach the table.

  ‘Grape or grain, but never the twain?’ Daisy says, lifting her glass to her lips.

  ‘Even if it’s exactly what the teacher ordered?’

  ‘Where’s Vee?’

  ‘Taking a tinkle,’ I reply, sliding into my seat.

  ‘You’re not at work now. You can use the big girl words.’

  ‘Most of the people at E11even don’t head to the toilet to tinkle. They go to do the white stuff.’

  Daisy’s face is a picture, her eyes wide with shock. ‘They take drugs at work? I know you spend Monday to Friday in one of those painfully hip places, but—’

  ‘I’m just kidding, Dais. While I wouldn’t be surprised to find a good eighty percent of them partake in a couple of cheeky lines at the weekend, coke is verboten in the office loos. Unless it comes in liquid form in a can, I guess. And yes, the place is painfully hip as well as sometimes just painful.’

  ‘Like you’re not one of the cool crowd,’ she scoffs.

  ‘I am one of the least cool people in that building.’ I find myself grinning as I shake my head. It’s strange because as a child from a large family, I spent my late teens and early twenties desperate to be seen and heard and employed all manner of behaviours to be so. Being loud and opinionated, colouring my hair in a colour palette of sherbet, and the strange habit of donning ballet wear with boots more suited to dockyard workers. And now that I’ve reached a quarter of a century, I work in an office full of people who were as I was. Brash and opinionated. Misfits and attention seekers. People who want to be seen and heard, whether by virtue of wacky fashion choices or ridiculously expensive designer wear. Yet now, I’m not in the least bit interested in any of this. ‘And I dress like a middle-aged librarian.’ Which is mostly because my great-grandmother left me her wardrobe when she passed eighteen months ago. It’s not as dire as it sounds. She was something of a bobby dazzler back in the day, as she’d have said herself, which means I’m now the proud owner of some gorgeous vintage items including a silk Jacqmar scarf, which was a twenty-first birthday gift to her own mother, to a silk cocktail dress that, although bears no label, looks suspiciously like it could be Chanel.

  While losing my great-granny, whose codename was Jammy because she never wanted to be called something as pedestrian as granny, was terrible, it came at the right time. I’d needed to reinvent myself, I suppose, and grow up a little. Besides, if I hadn’t ditched the tutus, I think Jammy would have come back to haunt me because she also left me her beautiful flat in Crouch End.

  ‘Rubbish!’ Daisy twirls a finger in the direction of my chest. ‘I’ve never seen a librarian who wears tight, fluffy twin sets and pencil skirts that make you wiggle when you walk. You’re vintage va-va-voom, but without the smell of mothballs. Like a modern-day sweater girl.’

  ‘I’m hardly Jane Mansfield,’ I say with a snort, my hands covering my breasts, almost as though my tiny A cup might hear and be upset.

  ‘No, but you’ve got her hair.’

  ‘Well, a girl can’t have locks the colour of cotton candy forever.’

  ‘It’s called candy floss.’

  ‘When you keep your hair pink by virtue of a box picked up in a pharmacy, because I’m worth it, it’s called cotton candy.’

  ‘Ah, the joys of being young and poor.’

  As compared to being old and poor thanks to a mortgage and renovation in her case, I suppose.

  ‘I don’t know why you ever hid your hair in the first place,’ she continues. ‘Women pay hundreds to get your shade of strawberry blond and never get anywhere near.’

  ‘A change is as good as a rest,’ I demur, which is easier than saying the catalyst was being teased mercilessly at school. ‘As for my sense of style, while I do like a little vintage these days, I’m all about dressing for function, not attention. Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything to draw attention to.’ I glance down at my chest pointedly.

  ‘Self-deprecation is not allowed on your birthday,’ Vivi announces, taking her seat next to me. ‘You might not want attention, but you certainly gain attention.’

  ‘Agree. Usually when I say something stupid.’

  ‘No, I refuse to listen to this twaddle. Let’s order some small plates,’ she says, reaching for the rose gold-embossed menu.

  ‘When did tapas become small plates?’ Daisy muses.

  ‘When did small plates become a thing when, clearly, growing girls need big plates?’

  ‘This girl doesn’t need to grow any more,’ Vee mutters, smoothing her skirt over her thigh with her free hand. ‘Not all of us were blessed with a metabolism like yours.’

  ‘I’d swap it for your boobs. I’m tired of fried egg tits. I want Easter eggs!’ I declare as I mime holding a solid D cup. ‘It’s true,’ I protest as Vee throws her head back, laughing raucously. At the same time as she moves back, someone on the next table stands, the movement drawing my attention, and there follows one of those moments when you see something you know you weren’t supposed to see. This place may be buzzing for a Thursday night, but it’s also the kind of establishment with plenty of darkened corners and secluded booths, the kind of place a person might plan to meet someone on the down-low, so to speak, for a secret rendezvous.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Vivi head turns, following my line of sight, and she actually inhales a sharp breath as she sees what I see. Or rather who.

  ‘My goodness. Who is that?’

  ‘Archer Powell.’ A man whose ego possesses its own postcode, I’ve observed. ‘He’s an analyst at E11even.’ One of the more senior on his team. A business manager, maybe?

  ‘He can analyse me any day of the week. I can’t believe you work with that perfect specimen, and you never shared. Sharing is caring, Heather.’

  ‘Ha! That sounds like it could be his motto. And he’s far from perfect.’ Beyond his looks maybe, which I’m told once graced the catwalks of Europe following university. ‘I don’t really know him, but I’ve heard the rumours, and those gossiping whispers paint a less than pretty picture. What’s the saying, pretty is as pretty does?’

  ‘That’s the kind of pretty that can does, I mean do, what it likes. Or whomever it likes.’ With an impish grin, Daisy returns to chasing the two tiny straws in her drink with her mouth.

  I guess she’s not wrong, not that I’d know. Archer Powell and I are on nodding terms only.

  ‘He’s only been with E11even for three or four months, but one of the receptionists in the office was told by someone at his last firm that he had to leave after sleeping with one of their receptionists.’

  ‘The receptionist tom-toms have been a-hammering, eh?’ Vee mimes banging a drum. ‘They probably had a no fraternisation policy.’

  ‘I don’t think that was it. I think it was more to do with the fact that she went full-on bunny-boiler m
ode once she realised he wasn’t interested in settling on a name for their future firstborn. She had to be admitted to a clinic after breaking into his house and chopping his wardrobe to bits.’ Or so the story goes.

  ‘That’s a strange thing to settle on,’ Daisy says. ‘I wonder what she had against his wardrobe? In the movies, the scorned woman usually attacks the car.’ As we both turn to look at her, she shrugs. ‘I’d imagine it’s easier to smash the headlights of a car than break into a house and hack up a wardrobe.’ With her hands, she mimes a large rectangle in the air.

  ‘His clothes, Dais. Not what he stores them in.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that makes more sense.’

  ‘At least she didn’t chop his bits to bits.’ Vee nods her head in Archer’s direction as the woman sitting next to him reaches across the table to stroke the back of his hand. ‘Presumably, his bits are still attached, or she wouldn’t be so invested.’

  ‘So he got this marching orders for trifling with her affections? It seems a little archaic.’

  ‘Based on office gossip only. But it’s hardly very complimentary, is it? Being given the sack in favour of the receptionist. I can only imagine he must’ve really done a number on her.’ If it seems odd, I don’t dwell on it for long, especially as he seems to be a big hit with the workforce. The women. The men. The management team. And the women again. Okay, so everyone. ‘He’s a long way from the office tonight,’ I muse.

  ‘So are you. So am I. So is Daisy, for that matter.’

  ‘Even if I don’t work in an office,’ Daisy adds. ‘Maybe this place is between their offices, same as us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I answer, even if he and I both know this isn’t true because the girl currently fluttering her lashes at him works in the same office, too. Or at least, she did until today when she finished her work experience placement, ready to return to university next month. And I’m beginning to wonder if Archer also has plans of moving on, too. Particularly as the woman in question—Clara—also happens to be the daughter of Frankie Lambeth, our big boss and the owner of E11even.

  Archer Powell, you are so busted.

  ‘Oh, her hopes are definitely high,’ Daisy adds with a titter. ‘And he looks like he has plans to deliver.’

  ‘All. Night. Long!’ Vee hoots, leaning across me to high-five Daisy.

  Though I smile, something stops me from mentioning the nature of their acquaintance. Not my monkeys, not my circus, I suppose. Frankly, I’m surprised, despite the rumours. He didn’t strike me as the reckless type, not that I know him beyond a vague nod of acknowledgement as we pass in those goldfish bowl glass walled hallways. I think I might have also once passed him his coffee cup in the communal kitchen. Okay, so I know I did because it stupidly still makes me blush when I remember how blue his eyes are close up, and how delicious his aftershave smelled on him.

  ‘You should so hit that.’ Daisy wraps her lips around her straws, curtailing her smile.

  ‘Yeah, because I have a massive thing for man sluts.’ Ugh. I am so not interested in Archer Powell.

  ‘Alleged man slut,’ Vee corrects primly. ‘Office tittle-tattle rarely comes from a reliable source, and more often than not can be traced back to envious desk dwelling trolls.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Also,’ Vee continues, ‘while I’m surprised you’re invoking the slut shame, I, for one, know man sluts and massive things are a very good combination.’

  More hoots and giggles ensue, along with the pair high-fiving again.

  ‘Do you get along at work?’ Daisy asks oh, so innocently.

  ‘Don’t even think about it. I’m as likely to date that man as I am to become the head of the Catholic church. I’ve barely spoken to him. Besides, he’s not likely to risk repeating the experience, is he?’ I’m sure he’d eventually run out of places to work. Be forced to move to Uzbekistan. Or Newcastle, even.

  ‘She’s right.’ Vee’s words are directed towards Daisy. ‘Our girl isn’t the type to entertain the old ejaculate and evacuate kind. She’s not interested in a casual thing, especially not a sexual casual thing.’

  ‘And he’s all about that thing.’ Although, as I hear it, despite the best efforts of some of E11even’s female staff, he leaves team pub nights alone. He’s made it clear he’s not interested in hooking up in-house. Lesson learned, I suppose. But he’s suspiciously quick off the mark at home time, and word is, he’s up to his ears in Tinder dates.

  ‘What a shame.’ Daisy sighs, pressing her elbow against the table to rest her chin on her hand. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you date him, just that he might be the answer to your wedding woes because someone is responsible for teaching that man beautiful manners.’

  My gaze follows hers to the secluded table.

  ‘And he looks like he belongs in a Louis Vuitton commercial. A masculine room, a monogrammed overnight bag slung nonchalantly over his shoulder. He steps out into the cobblestoned Parisian street with a look that’s both pensive and penetrating. The kind of look that says; look at me. I’m off to diddle a supermodel.

  ‘You’re wasted in a classroom. You should be in advertising.’

  ‘Ha, no. Give me children over office politics any day. And I really don’t think I’d get a lot of work done with him around.’

  ‘What about under him? Tempting, right?’ I roll my eyes at Vee’s suggestion. ‘Or on top of him, hurriedly stripping him out of his suit.’

  ‘He must’ve been out at meetings today. He doesn’t often wear a suit.’ He’s also not wearing those black framed glasses he sometimes wears, the same pair that make him look like a sexy superhero, ready to whip off his kit at a moment’s notice to satisfy the damsel in distress. Rescue, I totally meant rescue.

  ‘Um-hmm?’ Vee’s hum sounds like a singular raised eyebrow. ‘He doesn’t wear a suit normally? So tell us, darling Heather, what does he normally wear to the office? Or for that matter, what does he wear in your dreams?’

  ‘I do not dream about him, and we’re not having this conversation right now.’ I fold my arms across my chest and slide her a stern look. It’s not like I follow his movements or anything, unlike the women in reception or Em, my intern, who I swear almost swoon as he passes. But I do have eyes. ‘Because I’m not interested in having it.’

  ‘Having it or having him, hmm? Do we think the lady doth protest too much, Dais?’

  ‘Oh . . . bugger off,’ I retort, pushing back my chair. ‘I’m off to the loo. Would you please make sure you order some patatas bravas when the waitress eventually turns up?’

  Without waiting for their response, I take off in the opposite direction of the illicit lovebirds, hoping the restrooms are in the direction of the bar rather than the other way. I don’t want to walk past Archer’s illicit love-in.

  I love my friends; they really are the best. But sometimes, I need the space to escape before I say something daft. Or offensive. Or just wrong. Social settings aren’t my happy space, and while I don’t feel on edge when I’m hanging out with the girls, I still get the fleeting sense now and again that I don’t belong. It’s something I’ve worked on, but if I’m tired or frazzled or just down, it’s easy to let these thoughts take hold.

  I find the restrooms, and once my hands are washed and my self-talk endured, I pull open the door and step into the dimly lit hallway. I hope I can get back to my seat without Archer spotting me because while see no evil, hear no evil, and take no evil gossip back to the office is how I operate, he doesn’t know that. And I could do without being hassled.

  I battle through the Thursday party crowd (who would’ve thought Thursdays were so popular?) when I decide I’m probably being ridiculous. There’s not much chance he would recognise me. It’s not like we work together, and we sit in on very few of the same meetings. Mainly just the Monday meeting of department heads.

  ‘Hey, hello! It’s Holly, isn’t it?’

  I startle at the light touch to my elbow and the deep voice at my ear. And to be honest, startled doesn’t
quite cover it as I turn, look up, then look up again to find those brilliant blue eyes staring down at me, a dazzling smile completing the Archer Powell effect. ‘You work at E11even, right? In PR?’ His expression falters a little, the action bringing me back to myself.

  ‘Digital marketing.’ I shake my head as though shaking away tiny cobwebs. ‘And it’s Heather, actually.’

  ‘Right, sorry.’ Despite his apology, his demeanour doesn’t betray even a hint of concern. I mean, getting my name wrong is not exactly a great start, but he seems wholly untroubled by it. He also doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit anxious at being spotted. Or rumbled. I also notice he doesn’t introduce himself either, as if I couldn’t fail to know who he is. God, what a big head. ‘It’s packed in here tonight.’

  ‘It seems we’re not the only ones out for a few straight from the office.’ I return his guileless smile with one of my own because two can play at that game.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose Thursday is the new Friday, right?’ His hand smooths his tie against his torso, drawing attention to the flat planes of his abdominals. I bet they’re like a washboard under that shirt. The thought has no sooner risen and I’m pushing it away.

  I’ve never really given myself the opportunity to have a good look at him. Maybe I was conscious of being caught, but also because I’d decided looking at him, really looking at him, would be a bit like looking at the sun. As in dangerous. But I’m looking now, and I’m noticing all sorts of little things. He has the kind of cheekbones you could sharpen knives on, same with his jaw, for that matter, along with a blade straight nose. But these are the very obvious and striking reasons you can’t help but notice him. It would be a bit like trying to ignore the sweet aroma drifting out from a bakery when you’re halfway through Monday of a new diet. Of course you inhale, just a little, but it doesn’t mean your feet will take you through the door to gorge. But then there are the other things, the elements that elevate the man’s gorgeousness. Like he has the most elegant brows I’ve ever seen on a man. They don’t appear be shaped or plucked or waxed, but wholly natural.