The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  After Saturday night, I thought we’d reached an understanding or maybe a place of acceptance between us. Baring your soul to another has to count for something, I’d thought. Create some kind of connection, at least? But maybe all that was between us was a false sense of intimacy created by our shared stories. A false sense of intimacy created in a shared bed. A moment of strength in weak ties. Who knows? But what I do know is that I haven’t heard from him since then. And today is Wednesday. He didn’t mention he’d be in Amsterdam for the week. We’re supposed to be dating, that was the story, and he didn’t even say anything to me. And I made the mistake of asking at work. The only consolation is when I’d plucked up the lady balls to ask if anyone had seen him, it was Janakiraman, or Jay I think he prefers, who I came across first. I’m pretty sure no one takes half of what comes out of that man’s mouth seriously, so our story should be safe. Even if Archer seems entirely uninvested. Anyway, Jay told me where Arch was. Amsterdam, running a series of pitches. And Archer’s Facebook posts told me the rest. Amsterdam is very much the party city, it seems.

  ‘Earth to Heather.’ I come back to the moment as Miranda snaps her fingers close to my face.

  ‘Sorry. I must’ve zoned out.’

  ‘Wherever you zoned out to looked very unpleasant. Turn that frown upside down. You’ll frighten the children.’

  At the sound of a giggle-laden shriek, our gazes turn to the French doors and the wintery garden beyond where two ridiculously gorgeous tow-headed boys chase their equally attractive father around. Wide smiles on all three faces; the frigid air is filled with their excited shouts as the two small boys try to steal away a soccer ball from between their father’s feet.

  If Miranda is the person who knows me best, Harry, Miranda’s husband, is the person who knows her. The pair met the night I lost my virginity, and it’s partly that reason I’ve never confided in her. How could I mar her moment? Forever tarnish the edges of her memory with mine?

  Nope. I couldn’t do it.

  Anyway, the pair are so sickeningly gorgeous as a couple, I’m sure I’d hate them if I didn’t already love them so much individually. And their children? Their boys? They make me feel like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, though more steal-y and squeezy than cannibalistic.

  It’s fair to say I love these people hard.

  Oh, also, Miranda is my weekend boss; the person who pays me generously for a side gig I love because she owns Little Red, her high-end events company that specialises in very posh children’s parties. She also dabbles in the grown-up stuff, but I don’t get involved in those. Because, people. Urgh.

  ‘Ow!’ I startle at the pinch of my arm.

  ‘You’re doing it again.’

  ‘I have a lot of thoughts to think!’ I complain, rubbing my arm.

  ‘And a lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘Yes, so I went to a wedding. And you know I went to a wedding because I took the weekend off.’

  ‘And that’s all I know,’ she answers pointedly.

  ‘You’ve been to one wedding, surely you’ve been to them all. Declarations of never ending love, and promises to love you more than I love Nutella or I’ll love you forever and always, by the old gods and the new.’

  ‘Nobody would use those promises in their vows,’ Mir scoffs.

  ‘Shows what you know. Daisy went to a wedding last year where the bride wore her hair in braids, along with a white dress al à la Daenerys Targaryen.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me the groom went dressed as Khal Drogo!’

  ‘He was more Khal Drongo, Dais said. They also did that whole sun of my moon schtick in their vows. As for Nutella, I expect you’re right about that one. No one could love anything more than a jar of chocolatey goodness.’

  ‘So nothing exciting happened at this wedding?’

  ‘It was all pretty standard.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, your poker face has improved of late, but for someone who makes their living running social media campaigns, you don’t take a lot of interest in your own accounts. Here.’ She slides her phone across the polished concrete to me, my own Facebook account staring up at me in its Archer-centric glory. ‘I’m pleased someone got a little tag happy or else I’d have known none of this.’

  I never should’ve accepted those friends’ requests. You go to one party with the office stud muffin, and suddenly, everyone wants to be your friend. Or at least your Facebook friend. It could be that my cool currency has risen by association, but it’s more likely those women are keeping an eye on the situation and limbering up shoulders ready for him to cry on, not to mention the bits of themselves they want him to shag.

  ‘I don’t look too bad in this one.’ I make no mention of the image of said stud muffin standing just behind me, his fingers wrapped possessively around my hip. Possessive, grasping, and greedy, his hands holding me down as his mouth feasts on my skin.

  I push away the pulsing, sensory memory, trying to concentrate on Miranda’s voice.

  ‘Never mind about what you look like, who’s the dark-haired hottie with his arm around you?’

  ‘Just someone from the office.’ I try to keep all intonation and inflection from my tone.

  ‘Just someone from the office,’ she repeats with all the inflection, intonation, and suggestion in her tone. ‘He seems to be very familiar with your body, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Of course, at this I go scarlet.

  ‘Aha! I knew it—you did the dirty deed with the David Gandy lookalike! Spill all the sexy beans!’

  ‘There’s nothing to spill, except he’s better looking than David Gandy in the flesh.’

  ‘Oh, the flesh, is it? Did you spend some time with him in your birthday suit?’

  I slide her a withering look.

  ‘Come on, Heather-feather, don’t be a bore. You’re always so guarded about your love life.’

  ‘Because I mostly don’t have a love life.’ I turn my attention back to my laptop, studying the metrics of Miranda’s accounts because, as well as being a fairy, mermaid, pirate, and princess, I also manage these for her events company.

  Mir leans across the bench, taking back her phone. ‘He doesn’t look like someone who lacks a love life. He looks like he’s thinking about wolfing you down, and I’d say that by the cut of his jib, he’s not the type to do so in one sitting, so to speak.’

  ‘By the cut of his jib?’ I repeat, cackling. But holy hell, how can she tell that just from a picture?

  ‘Archer Powell,’ she recites, completely ignoring my goading as she presumably follows a tag to his Facebook account. ‘I’d be flat on my back faster than a pensioner on a patch of ice for him.’

  ‘That’s pretty whorey, Mir.’ But it doesn’t stop me from laughing. ‘And I’m not sure Harry would like to hear you say that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised to hear what Harry likes.’

  ‘Ew, no! I’d more likely be traumatised.’

  ‘Probably,’ she says with a dirty giggle before levelling her expression. ‘Anyway, I mean Miranda, the girl who lives in an alternate universe, not Miranda, the very happy and very satisfied wife of James Harrison.’

  ‘Very happy? I think you mean disgustingly happy.’

  ‘I am very disgustingly happy with my lot.’

  ‘That’s because your lot is a lot.’ Fingers outstretched, I indicate the splendour that is her kitchen and the family portrait shot of her little family unit hanging just off the kitchen. But then I notice the furrow in her brow, and I swear I can almost hear the cogs of her brain beginning to whir.

  ‘You know how you managed to attend a whole wedding with mingling and talking and socialising stuff? Do you think you might work the Singh-Smythe function for me next month?’ She fakes an angelic expression, her hands pressed together.

  ‘Don’t even try it. You’re too devious to be an angel.’

  ‘Was that a yes?’

  ‘That was a non-answer. My actual answer is no.’

  ‘Please, Het
h. I’ve had a shit time getting the right staff for this gig.’

  ‘It looks like last week’s birthday parties were a hit.’ It’s not exactly a deft change of subject as I flick through a couple of images of Daisy dressed in my mermaid outfit, entertaining a semi-circle of eight-year-old girls.

  ‘Daisy was great. I mean, she’s no Heather-feather, but she coped very well.’

  ‘Stop trying to butter me up,’ I grumble, switching screens to Miranda’s Instagram ad account.

  ‘You can’t stand the people you work with, but you managed a whole wedding without breaking out in hives. Imagine how easy it would be doing the Singh-Smythe thing knowing you’ll be doing it to get paid!’

  ‘When I said I break out in hives at adult social functions, I might’ve exaggerated a bit.’

  My cousin eyes me witheringly as she picks up her Wedgewood coffee cup, bringing it to her lips. But she knows that sort of stuff pushes me right out of my comfort zone. I need time to prepare, to build up to them. To gather mental fortitude. And I maybe I don’t get hives, but I do sometimes itch because I feel like people are watching me, waiting for me to say or do something stupid. I feel so on edge, worried that I’m reading expressions and situations wrong. Whether I’m there in a professional capacity or there by invitation, parties are just so bloody hard, and they leave me completely exhausted for days afterwards.

  And last weekend was no exception, only I was left a different kind of exhausted. The kind that leaves your limbs like jelly and your mind and body at war as they decide what’s too much and what’s enough and how many more times you’re going to do it anyway. It left me a good kind of exhausted. The best kind.

  And between those kinds of experiences and seeing Barney the next day has spurred me on to stop viewing life from the sidelines. I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do about it all, but something has to change.

  ‘Come on, Mir,’ I say, returning to the topic. ‘You know I don’t like the adult gigs.’ Don’t like being an understatement.

  ‘I just don’t get it. Kids’ gigs are a hundred times more hectic,’ she counters a little huffily. ‘Screaming and shouting, and all hyped up on sugar.’

  ‘Mir!’ My hand to my chest, I feign disbelief. ‘The Kensington and Chelsea yummy mummy set don’t feed their offspring with such poison.’

  ‘Whether its cake made from honey or coconut sugar, it still makes them loopy.’

  ‘I still find them easier to be around.’

  ‘That’s just because you get to hand them back after a couple of hours.’

  ‘If you don’t like it, you could always hire a nanny,’ I don’t so much suggest as taunt. As well as owning one of the foremost event companies in London herself, Miranda’s husband is also a ridiculously wealthy art dealer. The pair could well afford help.

  ‘And let another woman come between me and my boys?’ Her response is accompanied by a sly smile. ‘But I was actually talking about work. We get to hand them back at the end of the parties.’

  ‘All hyped up on natural sugars. But it’s also true that I find children easier to be around. I’m much less likely to be an arse around them, and if I am, they’re much less judgmental.’

  ‘Speaking of arses, how is that horrible boss of yours?’

  ‘He’s been quiet this week.’ Silent but sullen is a better description, thanks to Archer’s intervention.

  ‘You need a new job.’

  ‘Agreed, but it’s like I said, he’s not going to push me out of this job just because it suits him.’ And it probably suits him even more now that I know where his animosity stems from. Know it yet still find it hard to believe.

  ‘But you hate that job. You’ve hated it almost since the start.’

  ‘I know.’ I wince in response to her pointed accusation. I thought social media was my calling, but sometimes selling pretty lies to the masses feels like it’s eating away at my soul. ‘But I can’t leave until I have another job to go to because I have bills to pay. Besides, it’s become a point of honour almost. There’s no way he’s pushing me out. I’ll go when I’m ready, not when Haydn wants me out.’

  ‘You could just decide to leave as a way of helping yourself.’

  ‘I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.’

  ‘You know, there’s always work for you here. More work. Whatever suits you.’

  Miranda has always been so good to me. she even got me my first start in social media at a start-up she was working at—E-Volve, the socially conscious Tinder. I was at university when the company was sold to one of the biggest players in the online dating market. I even got a little payout that year, which helped keep my hair in candy hair colours the rest of university. I also got a lifetime membership to E-Volve, though the one time I used it was enough. Online dating is not for me.

  ‘Hey, do you remember Barney? Leif’s friend who used to live next door.’ I’m already beginning to describe him as she shakes her head. ‘Blond. Sort of round. Manners like a little Winston Churchill?’

  ‘Can’t say I do, sorry. Any particular reason?’

  ‘I saw him at the wedding last week. He even came back to the olds for Sunday lunch.’

  ‘You invited him?’

  ‘He said Leif did, but later, Leif said he more or less invited himself.’ He also pointed out after he’d gone how much more interested Barney seemed in catching up with me, which set Mum off, despite the way he’d phrased it. Like the fact that Barney could be interested in me was somehow astounding to him.

  And from such a nice family.

  And such beautiful manners.

  Hints I’d ignored, of course, because Leif only brought up the topic to take the heat off himself. Thirty-two and not yet married. The scandal!

  ‘Was he the one who used to moon after you. Red face? A snotty nose?’

  ‘None of those descriptions ring any bells.’

  ‘Blond and posh?’

  I sort of shrug. She could be thinking of the same boy.

  ‘That kid used to inspire your dad to hum “Greensleeves”.’

  ‘What?’ I feel my expression twist.

  ‘“Greensleeves.” You know? Because of his nose.’ She pretends to wipe the arm of her cashmere sweater under her nose.

  ‘Eww. That I definitely don’t remember.’

  ‘I hope he’s grown out of the habit. Especially if he passed you the gravy boat on Sunday.’

  ‘He’s a grown up now.’ Not to mention a doctor. ‘He must’ve grown out of any grottiness.’ Mir shrugs, unconvinced. ‘I bloody hope so because I kind of, sort of, said he could take me out.’

  ‘Oh. Well. I suppose that’s nice.’ Talk about a lukewarm response. ‘So there’s nothing going on between you and the office hottie?’

  ‘Nothing worth reporting.’ Nothing that will come to anything. So I suppose I should move on. One swallow (and one torrid night following a wedding) does not a girlfriend make.

  ‘When’s the big day?’

  ‘I’m not sure. As I’d walked him out to his car on Sunday, he’d asked me in quite a courtly fashion if he might keep in contact with me by email. He’s a doctor and working in Somalia at the minute for Médecins Sans Frontières.’

  ‘I bet Aunt Polly was all over that.’

  ‘She was all over him, all right. All over singing my praises, and bigging me up. It was embarrassing.’

  ‘Really? That’s hilarious!’

  ‘Maybe for you. He was no sooner out of the driveway when she reminded me not everyone gets to marry a millionaire art dealer.’

  ‘Bloody classic!’ Mir begins to cackle, almost rolling around in her chair. ‘Come on, Heth. Chop, chop. You’re twenty-five—almost past your prime!’

  ‘That’s okay because I only feel about five when she starts. Miranda already had a baby by the time she was your age,’ I parrot, mimicking Mum. It really is no wonder I tell her as little as I can get away with.

  ‘Ha! Like I’m so special. A baby on the way and no husban
d back then.’

  ‘True. Pregnant and no man. Well, apart from the mega rich dude chasing you.’

  ‘Did someone say my name?’ Harry kisses me on the cheek, bringing with it the brisk freshness of outside.’ ‘Hello, Heather. How’s things?’

  ‘Fair,’ I reply.

  ‘Heather has a date with a doctor.’

  ‘Nothing contagious, I hope.’

  ‘Urgh, dad jokes, Harry? Or should I call you mega rich dude.’

  ‘No, only Miranda calls me that when we’re role playing, isn’t that right, darling?’ He moves to his wife, kissing her cheek and making her squeal as he hugs her by sticking his cold hands under her sweater.

  ‘You monster! No more playing doctors and nurses for you.’

  ‘Is that what you and Daddy were doing in the bedroom this morning?’ five-year-old Thomas asks, suddenly appearing behind his father. ‘I bet Daddy was the patient,’ he whisper-shouts as he uses his hand on the wrong side of his face to shield his mouth. ‘Because he was moaning very, very loud.’

  ‘You’re right, Thomas. I was pretending to be very, very sick,’ Harry answers solemnly, his fingers tipping his son’s chin.

  ‘He wasn’t pretending,’ Miranda says, covering her words with a cough.

  ‘Very sick. But Nurse Mummy kissed it all better, and then I shouted with joy.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that, too. May I have a juice, please?’

  ‘Of course you can. You grab the oranges, and I’ll switch on the juicer.’

  ‘All right, but no sneaking carrots in it this time just because they’re orange.’

  ‘Orange is orange,’ Harry asserts, making his way to the other side of the counter. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘He went to poop,’ Thomas says, clambering up to sit in the high stool next to his mother. There’s little more than a year between Thomas and his brother, Teddy, or Theodore when he’s in trouble.

  ‘Charming,’ Miranda chastises lightly, ruffling his fair hair.

  ‘Mummy, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go!’ He picks up a large Jaffa and throws it to his father, followed by two more in quick succession, leaving Harry to juggle all three to the delight of his son.