by Alam, Donna
‘You might’ve let her down gently, but she appears to have no intention of losing interest in you by taking on the role of your guardian angel.’ Or maybe your chastity belt. ‘And there was a reason she said I shouldn’t bother setting my cap at you.’
‘She got you all wrong, didn’t she?’ He ends his words with an unpleasant sounding huff, folding his arms across his broad chest before turning away.
‘She was wrong. In lots of ways. But she’s also dangerous. See, she said you’d set your sights much higher than me. In fact, she told me you and Clara are seeing each other. It’s only a matter of time before this gets to Lambeth.’
7
Archer
What’s wrong with the people in this fucking place? Talk about toxicity.
‘I’ve done nothing worth reporting to Lambeth. It’s not like I’ve been caught with my hand up his daughter’s dress.’
Even as I’m saying this, I know the whole thing could still be damaging, especially as Heather is one of the Lambeths’ favourites. Also, there’s no smoke without fire in a place like E11even. A place where I’m on the fast track to promotion. I haven’t spent the past three months working my arse off to risk it all. Fuck it, I’ve been mindful, watched where I’ve stepped, what I’ve said and to whom, minded who I’ve looked at twice, and though I wasn’t specifically warned off the girl, my gut told me that every time I came within three foot of Clara publicly, it was reported back. I knew from the start for the sake of my career, coming near, in, or on her was definitely off the cards.
But then she’d done the whole wide-eyed ingénue thing last week, and I’d fallen for it. What a fucking ball ache.
But what’s Heather’s angle?
‘Why are you telling me all this? It’s not kindness, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because I brought you a cupcake.’ Even if she is a fiend for sugar.
‘The way I see it, you asked a favour of me, and now I’m about to ask a favour of you in return. I thought we might help each other out.’
I say nothing.
‘I can’t go to this wedding alone.’
‘So don’t go.’ I shrug tightly, my lunch turning to lead in my gut.
‘I also refuse to not go.’
‘So you’ve said, even if I still don’t understand why.’ Except Haydn has something to do with it. Were him and her a thing? According to Jay, no. Which means he’s what? Hassling her?
‘My reasons are my own.’ Avoiding my eyes, she begins to gather the remains of her lunch.
‘Right, so I’m gonna hazard a few wild guesses here because we’re going ’round in circles, and I have back-to-back meetings this afternoon. One, your boss doesn’t like that you’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s been a dick about it.’
‘What?’
‘Two, only now you’ve split up with your boyfriend, but you don’t want your boss to know. And I can also guess why. You know that’s what HR is for, though, right? Three, you feel you need to go to this wedding for reasons I don’t fucking know. On target so far?’ I don’t get an answer, but as she looks like someone has just glued her feet to the floor, I must have hit some of the high points. ‘My issue is, I don’t know what the fuck all this has got to do with me.’
Heather blinks for several long, loaded beats. Her words, when they eventually come, are halting and awkward.
‘I want you to be my plus one to this wedding. For you to pretend to be interested in me. Sexually, I mean.’
‘If you’re looking for someone to take the place of your boyfriend, I think you mean romantically. Boyfriends equal romance. Hookups equal fucking.’
‘Yes, that too.’ Her cheeks, already flushed from the cold, turn even redder. ‘The romance thing.’
‘I get it now. You think you can threaten to what? Tell?’ I make poncy air quotes around the words. ‘Well, excuse me for saying so, but your leverage is pretty piss poor.’
‘Oh, you wish.’ Her burst of rasping laughter is anything but happy. ‘You think I’m the only one with problems? I have news for you, Archie, your circumstances are pretty shitty, too. Do you know Lambeth has a thing for Allison? Oh, yeah. He takes her to lunch every Friday, and there’s also an Ascot trip every year. I bet he even buys her a stupid hat. But Allison? Well, Allison likes the young bucks, not older men it would seem. More specifically, she has the hots for you. For how long, who knows. And the same goes for how long she’ll keep from telling him about you and his darling Clara.’
‘How many times do I have to say this? Nothing happened with Clara.’
‘But she wanted it to, right? I saw her stroking your arm and engaging in a little footsie. There was nothing ambiguous about that.’
‘Nothing happened and I have nothing to hide.’
‘It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? Allison knows Clara likes you, and two plus two makes twenty-two when you work at E11even. There’s no smoke without fire and all that.’
‘So that’s it. Blackmail.’
‘I prefer to think of it as self-preservation. For both of us. You’ll provide me with a boyfriend and yourself with an alibi to Clara, and Allison, and Lambeth, and anyone else who needs convincing.’
‘Yep, still blackmail. Who knew you had in in you, little miss high and mighty?’
‘You can think what you like about me,’ she answers primly.
‘Oh, I do.’ I allow my gaze to roam over, more appraising than greedy, no matter how cute she is. ‘I don’t know why, but I thought you were better than that.’
‘Oh, please,’ she snipes back. ‘Don’t try to belittle me, not when we both know you have the moral fibre of a Danish pastry.
‘I’m just as tasty, too.’ She looks about to explode when I send her a cheeky wink. ‘You really think you can persuade more than a hundred people that you have a thing for me?’ It’s almost laughable. ‘You can barely stand me.’
‘I think I’ll manage,’ she answers primly. ‘And I’ll expect you do the same. We’ll say we’ve been dating secretly for a while and that’ll give you a little breathing space from one or both of your problems. Then we’ll break up on good terms in a few weeks, but you won’t date anyone from work out of respect for me. You’ll get to work in peace and concentrate on your career with the perfect brush-off for those who’re having a hard time hearing you say no.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll get left alone, too.’
‘You’ve really given this some thought.’
‘I’ve had to,’ she almost grates out as she straightens her coat and skirt, the low-lying winter sun making a halo behind her head. She looks so fucking innocent, standing there in her blue duffle coat with the yellow toggles and her matching cutesy shoes.
‘You could wear that getup for Halloween.’
‘Pardon?’ She looks up, her golden halo suddenly turning fiery red.
‘All you’re missing is a pair of fuck-me thigh-high boots, red of course, and you’d be a sexy Paddington Bear.’
‘You’d sexualise a beloved childhood hero?’ Her naturally husky tone is filled with disgust, but that’s what I’d aimed for.
‘Sexualise and defile.’ I close my eyes, tipping my head to the sun’s weak rays as I sit in contemplation for a beat. As I do, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a peep. I open my eyes and tilt my head to her.
‘And if I say no?’
‘Then I expect Allison will back up what I have to say when I go and tell Lambeth what I saw myself.’
‘Then you’d better get used to being sexualised and defiled because it looks like we’re going to a wedding.’
* * *
Contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t drive a woman to the brink at my last place of work. Was she part of the reason I left? Yes, because it turns out you can’t have a civil relationship with someone who can’t let go of the feeling you’ve wronged them somehow. Even when my ex got back from her weekend of pampering, she was still like Maleficent on steroids. So when I was offered this job, I took the les
son I’d learned and moved on with the understanding I wouldn’t get involved with anyone at work again. It had cost me too much in terms of my wardrobe, if nothing else.
Far better I stick to those I could fuck before fucking off without the concern of work-related repercussions. Tinder is a beautiful invention. The creators deserve to win the Nobel Prize for Peace as far as I’m concerned, not that I’ll be needing their services this weekend.
Following our fun tête-à-tête, we’d exchanged numbers. You know, so she could call me with helpful suggestions in the coming days, almost like women were an alien species to me.
Yeah, right.
There were calls and texts. Suggestions and reminders. Sometimes snark. But there was always fun to be had. Kind of like when she’d called me yesterday . . .
‘So, on Saturday,’ she’d begun, ‘I know we’re supposed to be together, but I’d appreciate it if you could please keep your eyes above my neckline and your hands to yourself.’
‘That’s not going to be a problem. Blackmail doesn’t come with benefits, babe.’
Did I mean it? Nah.
She thinks this is a done deal, and that she’s in charge. That I’ll do as I’m told. But she’s wrong. Very wrong. Because there will be touching, and there will be inappropriate comments . . . because you reap what you sow.
Someone ought to have taught her that.
‘Please stop calling me babe.’ She’d aimed for calm, but I could tell her words were delivered through gritted teeth. ‘I know you can behave like the gentleman your mother raised you to be.’
Clearly, she doesn’t know my mother. I’m what you might call a self-made man. I might not yet be at the pinnacle of my career, but what I have, I’ve made through my own sheer bloody-mindedness and with a dogged determination to succeed. I am who I am and I’m where I am despite the hand I was dealt at birth.
‘And under no circumstances is anyone to know about our deal.’
‘The fact that you’re blackmailing me, you mean?’
‘Let’s just stick to our backstory,’ she’d said, hurrying on.
This was my cue to recite our tiny story bible. Our relationship is new, and we’ve kept it under wraps for the sake of privacy. We want to keep it professional at work.
Yawn.
‘Yes, that all sounds great. We’ll go to the ceremony, eat, maybe dance once, and be out of the ballroom by eight sharp.’
‘Totally plausible. We’re in a new relationship, so we’ll leave early to fuck like rabbits.’
‘Do you have to be so crass?’
‘Shut up. You know you love it. And you love me for it. One day, we’ll look back and laugh as we tell our grandkids how it all started when you blackmailed me into being your date for a wedding.’
‘Can you please stop throwing that word around?’
‘Grandparents? Don’t stress. I’m sure you’ll be just as gorgeous when you’re old, and I’ll love you just as much. I probably won’t be able to stop myself from touching your wrinkly p—’
‘Stop! You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘Oh, you mean can I stop accusing you of blackmail? Hmm. Do you have a prettier word for what you’re doing?’
‘Please,’ she scoffed, ‘your affections are like the library. Free for anyone to borrow for a short time. And yes, by affections, I mean penis. But that’s okay. I’m not putting in a request.’
‘No, yours is more like a demand.’
‘Look, this will be good for us both. Just turn up, be your usual charming self, and everyone will fall over themselves. Then in a few weeks, we can break up and never speak of this again.’
‘Except when we tell our grandkids, right?’
‘Urgh! You’re impossible.’
‘Oh, and what I said about benefits? I don’t put out on the first night.’
‘Archer—’
‘Ha, I bet that worried you.’ I chuckled darkly. ‘Only joking, because there will be fucking.’
‘We will not be sleeping together.’
‘You keep telling yourself that, babe. You know you’re hot for this.’
Her huff of frustration had echoed down the line right before the call cut out, and I found myself smiling.
Archer: 1
Heather: a big fat zero
Who knew being blackmailed would be so much fun?
* * *
Of course, it couldn’t have been a London wedding. No. Because that would be too easy. We have to hike out to Surrey to a Frambrough Castle hotel, the kind of castle with a motte and a bailey, and where the modern additions to the building date back to the seventeenth century. The day is bright and sunny, bringing with it the promise of spring, and as the drive up takes me less time than I expected, I arrive early.
I’m pleased Heather didn’t suggest we travel together.
It’s given me time to get my game face on.
God, she’s in for a treat.
I park up and make my way to the hotel reception, under the portcullis and past the Gate House, and into a sun-drenched courtyard with a very grand set of ancient-looking wooden doors just beyond. The courtyard houses a pretty garden in the centre where a young florist is busy trailing greenery around an arbour that’s still wearing its winter coat. I pass a wooden pillory and a couple of Grecian urns filled with early spring flowers and wonder how many of these will be used tonight by drunk wedding revellers.
The urns for puke and piss. Pilloried drunks. The arbour used for illicit sex.
Ah, the romance of a castle wedding.
I sweet-talk the receptionist into giving me Heather’s room number, then duck into the bar for a swift vodka before making my way up the well-worn stone staircase to the third floor, and I’m suddenly looking at the door to her room.
Room 312
With a deep sigh of resignation, I rap my knuckles against the wood.
The door creaks as it opens, those knowing grey eyes flashing with something that looks like fear. It has to be shock, right?
‘Archer? What are you doing here?’ For a moment, I forget why I am here, how I’m supposed to behave when I’m looking at the object of my greatest ire while she’s basically standing in her underwear. Well, almost. A dark blue slip, shimmering like moonlight. A band of lace at the bottom and a filigree of the stuff at the top, and no bra. Yes, she’s also wearing a hotel robe that’s about three sizes too big, but that’s not the important information here.
‘Are you okay?’ She ties the belt hurriedly, cinching it shut.
‘What?’ I shake my head as though shaking off flies. Did the barman give me a double vodka? One flash of her slip and I’m behaving like the sort of man used to women living in purdah?
‘What are you doing here?’ The sharpness of her shock slips away, replaced by something softer.
‘Reporting for love-struck boyfriend duty.’ I click my heels together and mock a salute, and as I sling my suit carrier and weekend bag over my shoulder, she skims it with a worried look. ‘Checking in as the stand in.’
‘Are you staying here, too?’
‘Well, yeah. I thought that was the plan.’ I step forward, and Heather trips back, though I stop her from banging her head against the door by catching her around the waist. ‘Did you miss me?’ She stiffens as I press my lips against her hairline and appears too shocked to do anything as I stride into the room. Four steps and I’m standing in front of the bed.
It’s a very small room. Tiny, really.
‘Is-is your room not ready?’ She turns from closing the door, pushing up the sleeves of the towelling robe only to push her hands into the deep pockets. Something about the size of it makes her look childlike and vulnerable.
Oh, how appearances can be deceptive.
‘Seems to be,’ I say, dropping my bags at the foot of the bed before launching myself across the mattress, landing on my back. ‘Though it’s kind of a small room, babe.’
This is definitely a single person room, the size unhelped by the ric
h décor of dark green, peppered with copper accents. Wainscoting, velvet drapes, and a studded leather headboard. One nightstand with a lamp, a tall ornate mirror hanging from the wall. A slim French-looking wardrobe in one corner, a dainty chair in the other, a TV set into a wall, and a tall chest of drawers below. There isn’t even space for a luggage rack, I note as I spot Heather’s pink-coloured Samsonite standing upright next to the wardrobe.
‘Because it’s a very expensive hotel. And stop calling me babe.’
‘What would you prefer? Snookums? Darling? Sugar tits?’ At my final suggestion, she folds her arms across her chest, her expression hardening.
‘Okay, so you’ve had your fun. You can leave for your own room now.’
‘But I’ve told you. I’m in it.’ I prop myself on my elbows.
‘I thought—I assumed you’d either drive up and back the same day or get your own room.’
‘You know what they say about assuming, babe.’
‘Archer. Seriously. You can’t possibly stay in this room. The idea is ludicrous. It-it’s untenable.’
‘You’re in the wrong business. You should’ve been a teacher with your big words.’ I do a little jazz-hands thing, then roll my eyes unimpressed. ‘You’ve got the shrill voice and the shrewish manner down.’
Another low dig causing her to sharply inhale.
‘Teachers are nice.’ She tightens her arms, the lace of her slip visible again.
‘Not at the schools I went to.’
‘Probably because you have the personality that would test a nun.’ She steps closer, and for a minute, I think she might stomp her foot.
‘Teachers are ruthless.’ Just like you, I think but don’t say because that would be a step too far. Though I’ve accused her plenty of blackmail, it’s coercion at best. It’s also partly a situation of my making. And while a country wedding doesn’t rate highly on my favourite Saturday plans, I’m enjoying myself. Sparring with Heather has, so far, proven to be fun.