The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Are you both eating risotto over there?’

  Somehow, we’ve been sat at a table with Captain Obvious and his somnolent wife, who has either been hitting the G&Ts hard or is a narcoleptic judging by the way she almost fell asleep in her soup course. There are two other couples who seem like friends and have only attention for each other, which suits both me and Heather’s anxiety levels. The E11even crew have been dispersed amongst other tables, which also suits me because I’m happy I have her all to myself. Yes, happy. I’m just going with the flow. A free bar soothes all kinds of problems, except risotto self-flagellation in women named Heather.

  ‘You’re missing a treat,’ I tell him, forcing another forkful past my lips, ignoring the beef wellington on Captain O’s plate, tender looking and rare, just the way it should be.

  ‘I’m an Englishman,’ he says with a deep chortle as though his accent hasn’t already given that away. ‘Give me meat and two veg or lay me down in my grave.’

  ‘Unlike the poor animal on your plate,’ Heather mutters, her gaze dropping to her own dish.

  ‘If we were meant to eat grass, the good Lord would’ve given us two stomachs.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve already got two,’ his wife says, squinting at her husband’s girth before poking it with a bony finger.

  ‘Bride or groom?’ I ask as his cheeks turn a lovely puce colour.

  ‘Groom,’ the man answers. ‘He’s my cousin’s boy. A lovely fellow. You?’

  ‘Bride.’

  ‘Her family did this place up a treat.’ I stifle a smile as his eyes wander over the Regency-style splendour of the castle’s ballroom, a relatively modern addition to the building, circa 1812 as I understand, according to the booklet in Heather’s bedroom. Though he could be talking about the abundance of fresh flowers. And feathers. And crystal.

  I find myself smiling as I recall Heather’s remark about how Poppy’s family had a lot of money but not a lot of taste as we had stared at our table setting, dressed with about as much understatement as a Vegas showgirl.

  As banalities ensue, I notice a change in Heather’s posture. The way her fingers are almost white around the stem of the glass, and the shade of red in her cheeks and the even darker one in her eyes. I follow her gaze to where Haydn is glaring at her.

  ‘I told you so. That isn’t a look that says interested,’ she murmurs, tearing her gaze away.

  ‘That’s what I’d call a black look, one of pure jealousy.’ I slide my hand around the back of her chair, acknowledging him with a short wave.

  ‘I’m not sure how antagonising him will help.’

  ‘You want proof,’ I whisper, leaning in. ‘Oh, it’s coming.’ I can feel it, just as I can feel the daggers he’s throwing my way.

  ‘I know you find it very hard to believe you could be wrong, but you are. Very wrong.’

  ‘So much snark for one so sexy. Care to bet on that?’

  ‘I’m not so mean as to take money from you.’ Her blithe tone contradicts the pink in her cheeks. Is she embarrassed that I called her sexy or is she irritated? And then, is she irritated because I called her sexy or irritated because I say she’s wrong. I might’ve come to understand a few things about her but there’s so much about her I still want to know.

  ‘Who said anything about money?’

  ‘That’s usually what a bet is, isn’t it? A wager or gamble? Cold, hard cash.’

  ‘I’m sure we could make it a little more interesting, unless you’re just flapping your gums, of course.’

  Our joint gazes slide to Haydn again who is still glowering over at us. As he tears his gaze away, he violently pushes back his chair and stomps out of the room like a man thwarted.

  ‘He’s excused himself to have his mantrum in private,’ Heather crows. ‘And, oh, look, he’s got a bit of a bald patch,’ she says, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying that a little too much.’

  ‘There are only so many times you can shout the same insults in your head when you’re being belittled and undermined. Variation is a good thing. Besides, he’s made my point exactly. He can’t even stand to see me having a good time.’

  ‘You’re having a good time?’

  ‘Well, it beats being here on my own.’

  ‘Be still my beating heart,’ I reply deadpan. ‘Why, I haven’t been complimented like that since I was called in front of the care home manager for—’ I halt immediately. This is not a happy little anecdote and or something I regularly upcast. In fact, anything that pertains to my life from before the age of eighteen is not something I ever speak about. Or think about, if I can help it.

  ‘Go on.’ Her hand covers mine, and there’s a gentleness to her voice that I find I can’t take.

  I shake my head and reach for my glass, unsubtly signalling the switch in conversation.

  ‘What are you willing to bet that I’m wrong?’ These are just rote words as I fight the instinct to allow my mind to return to that time, my fingers so tight on the stem of my glass I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see it shatter.

  ‘I don’t need to bet anything. I know you’re wrong.’

  ‘And I know that, before the end of today, Haydn will declare his undying want of you, probably by lecturing you on your choice of date because it’s killing him that you’re not here with him.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘So confident. Yet so resistant to a little wager.’

  ‘I don’t get gambling,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I don’t understand how anyone can think of it as a recreational activity.’

  I find myself chuckling. ‘I’m not trying to seduce you into a den of vice. Just proving my point.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you’re not as confident in your assertion as you make out.’

  ‘Ten pounds.’ Her answer is immediate. I thought she’d call me out for my goading.

  Here, little fishy. Bite a little more.

  ‘Not so confident now, eh?’ I say, leaning back in my chair

  ‘Ten is enough,’ she protests.

  ‘Ten is easy to lose. Ten says you don’t care either way.’

  ‘I never like to lose,’ she replies mulishly.

  ‘So, stump up. It’s got to be something you’d hate to lose. Something that pushes you out of your comfort zone. Something that says, I’m so supremely confident, I know I won’t lose.’

  ‘Like what? A hundred?’

  ‘Like those big knickers of yours.’

  I begin to laugh when her expression morphs from dismay to calculation.

  ‘I’ll go one better than that, finish what you began to say earlier, from when you were a little boy, and they’re yours.’

  My laughing halts immediate. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  As my expression hardens, hers only relaxes as a small smile plays across her lips.

  ‘It’s up to you. I mean, I’m happy enough to keep my bum covered, thank you very much. You’re the one who seems to think he knows it all.’

  ‘Reverse psychology? Really, Heather, I thought better of you.’

  Bringing her napkin to her mouth, she begins to chuckle before dropping the square of linen to her lap again. ‘Think what you like. I don’t care.’

  I didn’t need her invitation because I’m already trying to resist the recollection of how creamy her skin is. Of her tiny waist and the flare of her hips as her dress had blessedly gaped. Of how her skin had rippled in response to the brush of the feathers. But most of all, I try to resist the image of my tongue swirling those tiny dimples above her peach of a backside.

  Trying and failing for most of the afternoon, if I’m honest with myself. And I rarely am.

  And now I have other imaginings to add to the vault in my head dominated by Heather as she slips into the ladies’, skimming her dress up her thighs. Of her thumbs hooking into the elastic of her tiny blue knickers before sliding them down her thighs. She’d be embarrassed yet turn
ed on. Would she touch herself? Would she press her palm to the door of the stall and discover for herself just how much she wanted this?

  Fuck. Fuck me. When was the last time I wanted something this badly?

  I want to keep my secrets, but I want her more.

  ‘I spent my life bouncing between my mother and the care system from the age of five to eighteen, while she bounced from loser to loser and from flat to grimy flat. The first time I was put in care, I was put in a room with three other boys about my age.’ I sniff and rub my hand under my nose like a city boy on this way out of the gents after a couple of cheeky lines before carrying on, emotionless. ‘The place was warm, and there was food, plus there was no drunk arsehole threatening to dangle me out of the eighteenth-story window, but I still wanted my mum. See, I hadn’t learned at that point.’

  What could Heather know of poverty? About growing up in a succession of shitty sink estates, of violence and hatred, and men who smacked your mother around before the door slammed on their bedroom as they stumbled to a filthy mattress to screw.

  I glance at her, expecting to see her horror or, worse, pity, fully expecting to stop myself here. I’m strangely grateful to see neither of these things as she waits for me to pick up the story, that isn’t really a story but the sad tale of neglect that was my own.

  ‘I was given the top bunk where I lay facing the wall. It had racing cars on it, and I wrote my name above the fastest looking red one. One of the other little bastards grassed me up—he told. I was sent to the office of the big fucker in charge. It was vandalism, right?’ My skinny little legs were wobbling as I was led down the hallway, but even at that age, I knew he couldn’t do worse than what had already been done to me. ‘When I got there, he almost complimented me on being able to spell my name.’

  I stop there, my lips pressed together to stop further spillage. Eventually realising I still have a glass in my hand, I bring it to my lips.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her softly spoken words elicit one more from the vaults.

  ‘There’s a kind of glory almost for having working-class roots but people never talk about poverty. Poverty is all I knew. For a long time.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ Heather rises, dropping her napkin to the table. ‘I believe I have my side of the bargain to keep.’

  I wrap my fingers around her wrist before she has a chance to leave.

  ‘But you haven’t lost yet.’

  ‘No, but you’ve exposed a little bit of yourself, and I appreciate it. I think it’s my time to do the same.’ Then she blows me away by bending at the waist and pressing her lips to my cheek. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I pull out my phone, hoping she isn’t looking because the semi I’m currently sporting is bound to become a full-on stiffy, considering where my mind went the moment she left the table. Talk about being blown away—she didn’t even react to my goading. She challenged me, not the other way around. I can’t think about what this might or might not mean because I can only think of her just metres from me, wiggling out of her underwear.

  And she really isn’t gone long as, my eyes glued to my phone, her chair is pulled out. I look up, a stupid smile glued to my face.

  ‘There you—’ Fuck. ‘What do you want?’

  12

  Archer

  ‘What do I want? I want you to leave her alone.’

  ‘Heather?’ I ask breezily, sliding my phone away again. ‘Why would you ask me that?’

  ‘Because she doesn’t deserve to be taken for a ride by the likes of you.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I stretch out my legs and fold my arms across my chest. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by the likes of me? Do you mean someone who’ll treat her well? Make her laugh? Make her feel good about herself? You don’t think Heather deserves that kind of attention? Or ride?’

  ‘She doesn’t deserve to have her emotions played w-with.’ He begins to stammer, rage burning in his gaze. ‘Men like you use women and fuck them over. I won’t let you.’

  ‘You mean you won’t let me fuck her?’ I sit straight, turning in my chair to face him. ‘Is that what this is about, Haydn? You’re pissed off that I got to her first?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But I caught the guilty flare in his gaze. I know men like him—know them from a time when I was too little to do anything about it to help.

  ‘Oh, I think you do, but what I don’t understand is why you’d think wearing her down with your insults and your daily put-downs would make her see you for anything other than you are?’

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me what that is?’

  ‘Why? You know what you are. And I see it too. You’re just a spineless prick, a waste of skin, bone, and tissue. But bullies usually are.’

  ‘You know nothing about me, and you know nothing about how I feel about Heather—she’s a colleague, a subordinate—’

  ‘And I suppose that makes you her superior? You fucking dick.’ The insult leaves my mouth in a gust of loathing. He may not have laid his hands on her, slapped or punched her, but his tactics are the same. ‘Your behaviour is tantamount to abuse, and it’s not going to continue.’

  ‘Is that what she’s told you? She’s saying I abuse her?’ His whole being puffs up with indignation, like a cockerel ruffling its feathers.

  I don’t know about cockerel, but the man is a cock.

  ‘She’s had a lot to say, but mainly, she’s confused. She doesn’t know why you treat her the way you do. But I do.’ I lean in closer now, just so he gets the point. ‘It stops now. The subtle put-downs, the sly remarks. The degrading comments you throw out in meetings. I’ve marked your card. This is your first and final warning.’

  ‘So that’s your game, is it? The knight riding in on a gleaming charger to slam her down against the mattress?’

  ‘She doesn’t need someone to save her. And as cruel as the truth is, if she wasn’t fucking me, it would never be you.’ You stunted prick.

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘There you are, babe.’ I catch a glimpse of Heather behind us, her expression as wary as her next two steps. ‘I was just discussing with Haydn here how things are going to be from now on.’ I loop my hands around her wrist and bring her closer until her hand wraps around my shoulder, the motion seeming like the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Oh?’ Her thigh presses along the length of my arm, and she draws closer.

  ‘I told him what we were talking about earlier. About how if he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’d drag him to the street and punch seven colours of shit out of him.’

  ‘Archer—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I also told him how you said you didn’t need me to stand up for you. That you’d reached the limit of your patience and had decided to report him to HR for any future harassment.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She nods as though this is something we’ve spoken of as I bring my arm behind her, my fingers clasped to her hip. ‘So why is he still sitting here?’ At my shrug, her head tilts until she’s staring at him. ‘Go on then, off you fuck.’

  * * *

  ‘Do you think HR will take me seriously?’ Heather slumps into the chair vacated, at speed, by her horrible boss.

  ‘They’ll have to.’ I watch him stride past the table he was sitting at earlier, grabbing his jacket before storming from the room. When I glance back at Heather, concern creases her expression.

  ‘But he’s my boss. He’s going to be harder to replace than me.’

  ‘Who said anything about replacements? It might not even come to you complaining yet. Maybe he’ll just stop being a knob.’ Bullies usually take the course of least resistance when challenged. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? I’m sure being a knob is in his DNA, but knobbishness is a choice. And he hasn’t always been subtle, you know. There are people in the office who would speak up if they needed to.’

  ‘Speak against Haydn?’

  ‘Speak up for you.’ I cover her hand with mine, glancing down a
t where she holds it in her lap, balled in a fist. ‘Do you have something to show me?’ My head rises, my eyes searching hers.

  ‘Not in here,’ she retorts, all wide-eyed shock.

  ‘You’re going to show me them somewhere else, babe?’ Show me all the pretty things. The flush on her chest, the parts of her that are lush and ripe.

  ‘The bargain didn’t mention anything about me giving them to you,’ she demurs.

  ‘But what are you going to do with them if not give them to me?’ I press my hand to her lap, palm facing upwards.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. I hadn’t much thought about any of this.’ Her words fall in a rush, her cheeks turning adorably pink.

  ‘Just give them to me. For safekeeping.’

  ‘You promise you won’t do something ridiculous? Like put them on your head.’ Laughter bursts free from my chest, causing her to frown. ‘You’re right. That is funny because they wouldn’t fit on your ginormous head.’

  ‘God, you’re adorable.’

  ‘And you’re horrible.’

  I’m not sure about horrible, but I’m horribly turned on.

  ‘Give them to me. Please. I promise not to do anything silly.’ My fingers curl under hers as she yields, pressing the silky fabric to my palm. ‘Thank you.’

  Her eyes widen as I bring that same hand to my nose, inhaling the delectable sweet musk of her, a scent to torment the senses.

  ‘You . . .’

  As I dip forward, she holds up a hand as though I might kiss her. Instead, I bring my mouth to her ear.

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do anything shocking. And smell you is the least shocking of the things I’d like to do to you.’

  As I move back, breath almost stutters from her mouth, her eyes watching as I push her underwear in the pocket of my pants. I’m saved from other admissions as the Master of Ceremonies announces the speeches are about to begin.

  For what feels like the next ten years, we’re subjected to numerous orations where attendants are praised, tears are shed, and gifts are presented to the respective sets of new in-laws. And all the while, all I can think about is the woman sitting next to me. The fact that, if I slip my hand along the inside of her thigh, I know exactly what I would find.