The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Daddy!’ announces Teddy, the latest addition to the kitchen capers, who appears to be carrying a large jar of corn kernels.

  ‘Yes, fruit of my loins,’ Harry booms back.

  ‘I don’t want juice. I want cockporn.’

  ‘You, my child,’ Harry answers gravely, ‘are definitely your mother’s son.’

  The next Jaffa is courtesy of Miranda, not aimed for Harry’s hands, but his head.

  God, I love these people hard.

  20

  Archer

  I could’ve called her.

  She could’ve called me.

  But neither of us seem to be of that mind.

  So what does that say about our relationship, both fake and real?

  She also could’ve tried not to look so horrified when that blond bastard mentioned lunch. It’s not like I wanted to go, but she didn’t offer either. Which makes me, what?? Good enough to fuck but not good enough to take home to meet Mummy and Daddy.

  Did I want to?

  Maybe at some point.

  I didn’t want to be second best; that is the point.

  And I wanted her to invite me. I wanted to walk in with her on my arm, probably not that day but maybe some point later on?

  She could’ve asked, but she didn’t.

  And I could’ve tried to act a little less butt-hurt about it.

  Idiot.

  ‘So, do you like Amsterdam?’

  I’m sitting in a cavernous bar in a hotel in the centre of the city, a wall of glass looking out into the dark street. I turn to my companion, not someone I know or someone I’ve invited to have a drink with me. But it’s a bar. In a hotel. In a city. Full of people travelling for business, alone. You find companionship where you can—even sitting at a bar, because it beats being alone. ‘What’s not to like?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the people? The bike lanes? The fact that we can’t queue for shit?’ So a local, then.

  ‘The people? I love ’em. The bike lanes? Yeah, they’re not fun. Especially when you accidentally step into one. It’s like taking your life in your own hands, as well as a decent lesson in swearing.’

  ‘Yes, that’s very true.’ My companion laughs. ‘We are a little militant about our cycle lanes. Step into them and someone will curse your whole lineage with a nasty disease. That’s not so good.’

  ‘Yes, but you also have canals, and pretty streets, museums, and beer.’ I raise the brown bottle in my hand as though toasting all the great things Amsterdam has to offer before I tip it back a little to read the label in the dim light.

  Arcense Bierbrouwerij Hertog Jan Tripel

  8.5% alcohol.

  Jesus. Another couple of these and I won’t be able to make my way back to my room.

  ‘Is there anything else you like about Amsterdam?’

  The people, bike lanes, canals, pretty streets, museums, beer. I run through the list in my head. What else?

  ‘The food,’ I manage to say, pulling the word out of my head in the vein of eureka!

  ‘Really? The food?’ My companion laughs, adding a little shake of the head.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ I find myself laughing along before my gaze slides to the big screen TV to the left of the bar. Ajax is playing at home, which gives me another item to add to my list. Football and AFC Ajax.

  ‘We’re not known for our food, beyond it being plain and a little . . . what’s the word? Stodgy?’

  ‘I dunno where you’ve been eating, but the food I’ve had over the past couple of days has been great.’ Honestly? It’s been a little dull, apart from the pickled herring, which was a culinary experience I don’t ever want to repeat. Still, I’m at the stage where I could kill for a bowl of spicy pho.

  ‘Really? I don’t believe you! What have you had that was so tasty?’

  ‘I had poffertjes yesterday.’

  ‘Lieveling, that’s not food. More like a snack.’

  And if it was the kind of lunch that was served with wine and followed by dessert.

  ‘Bitterballen, then.’

  The kind where people spent hours at the table, too stuffed with food to move.

  ‘Meatballs. Also a snack.’

  Relaxed in good company. Fake arguing over the dishes.

  ‘Oliebollen?’ After this, I have nothing but pickled herring.

  ‘More spherical-shaped snacks? Do you have some fascination with balls?’

  I laugh loudly. ‘Maybe my own.’

  ‘You know Oliebollen means oil balls?’

  ‘Well, they taste a lot better than they’re named.’ Maybe I should make sure that’s underlined on my expense form. One serving of oily balls for Archer in Amsterdam. The bastards would have a field day.

  ‘So you like the food, the beer, the pretty streets, and the canals. But there are some things you haven’t mentioned that Amsterdam is very famous for.’

  ‘I know. Windmills and tulips. But as I’ve spent the past few days working in the city, I haven’t seen any windmills and it’s still a bit cold for tulips, I think.’

  Heather, Lavender, Primrose, and tulip. The Whittington girls plus one more. What kind of brutal parents call their son Sorrel, for fuck’s sake? I wonder how many times he was beaten up in school.

  ‘What about the dark side of Amsterdam. Cannabis and the red-light district. It’s often what we’re known for.’

  ‘Ah, well. I’m a bit old for those kinds of things.’ I’ve never paid for sex, not literally, at any rate. Figuratively, yes. I’ve paid in blood, sweat, and tears, though the last aren’t usually mine. But I’ve also paid in moving from workplaces, changing gyms, and leaving favourite pubs.

  ‘And cannabis? Do you partake?’

  My Spidey sensors are tingling. Or that might be the hand on my knee.

  ‘I like a little buzz myself, though mostly I prefer a little ecstasy when I party on the weekends.’ The hand slides farther up my thigh. For the first time, I take a good look at my bar companion. Yes, I’d registered she had tits, but that was about it.

  There’s a woman sitting next to me in a hotel bar.

  And she’s flirting with me.

  How have I managed not to notice?

  Am I losing my touch?

  My marbles?

  Or did I just leave my well-oiled balls in a castle hotel in Surrey?

  ‘What about you?’ Her pale painted nails dig into my inner thigh, the sensation making my dick twitch.

  ‘I won’t be in Amsterdam at the weekend.’

  ‘I thought as much. That’s why I thought we could go to your room now.’

  I take good look at the woman next to me.

  Older, not younger than me.

  Attractive, not pretty and without Heather’s breathtaking brand of innocence.

  Sophisticated, not brash.

  Sultry, not sweet.

  Tall and not short.

  Dark hair. No presence of strawberry.

  But the biggest difference of all, this woman is obviously interested in me.

  21

  Archer

  I take a mouthful of my drink, relishing the smooth slide of my nightcap down my throat. My hands fall away as I sigh, the friction of my boxer briefs lowering more than just a precursor. More than just a tease.

  ‘Fuck.’ The brush of fingers along my abs makes them tense, and my glass hits the floor with a quiet thud. The last drops of dark liquid absorbed by the carpet, the action I concentrate on as a means of distracting myself.

  This is wrong, but it feels so right. And more to the point, I can’t help myself.

  With a hiss, my head tips back, my eyes on the ceiling. I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to think of her right now, but I’m grateful the memories seem to increase with use rather than fade. And I remember it all so vividly. Heather standing in front of the mirror in nothing but her heels, her eyes dark and trusting, her hot, panting breaths fogging the glass.

  ‘Ungh.’ Those same fingers tease the head of my cock, sliding lower to
grip it, my body relaxing with that distinct bone-melting kind of relief.

  The soft moue of her mouth.

  The way I’d wiped her essence there.

  Her tongue darting out to taste.

  The sensation of my whole body tensing as I fought the urge to fuck her right there.

  ‘Yes . . . fuck, yes.’ I know lube would help ease the slide, aid the drag. Maybe a little more spit? But easy isn’t what I deserve even if it comes anyway in the appearance of precum leaking from my slit.

  Harder. Faster. My breathing becomes jagged and sharp.

  I hiss out a curse as I’m consumed by this sating grip, the sensation even more snug on the backslide. My heart rate begins to climb, and my legs to shake, tension drawing my balls tight.

  That peach of an arse.

  Nipples like cherries.

  The flare of her hips.

  Fuck me blind, how am I already this close?

  My head jerks back, the images of the woman I can’t have adding a layer of something bittersweet because I’m coming on her arse, seeing her in disjointed flashes under me. Over me. Her mouth around my cock replacing this satin slide. She’s in lingerie. Wrapped in a sheet. On her knees, her hard nipples presented to me.

  My body reacts as though struck by lightning. I cry out, my back bowing from the chair, not sure if I’m chasing touch or avoiding it as my orgasm barrels from the depths, bringing with it light and heat and ecstasy. I may be in an anonymous hotel room in Europe, but in my mind’s eye, I’m defiling her with strands of my cum.

  I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that I’m alone. Perverted or preferable that I’ve just wanked myself into oblivion with nothing more than the memory of her and a pair of blue satin knickers.

  I was offered anonymous pussy on a platter, and I couldn’t go through with it—I didn’t want to go through with it—because, as gorgeous as the woman was, she wasn’t her. She wasn’t Heather. It’s like, the night could be full of stars and I’d still be watching her. For me, there is only her.

  22

  Heather

  ‘Start from the beginning. Tell us again.’

  ‘To recap, I coerced a guy from work to take me to the wedding. Into faking a relationship with me for the next few weeks to get Haydn off my back. We went. We had fun. He threatened to rip off Haydn’s arm and beat him to death with the soggy end if he continued his reign of terror—’

  ‘Terror’s a bit strong,’ Vivi interjects. ‘Reign of dickishness is more like it.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I retort witheringly, earning a snigger from Daisy. ‘Am I telling you this story, or are you?’

  ‘You have the floor,’ Vee answers magnanimously. ‘A floor I think came out really well.’ From her position on her peony-coloured velvet chesterfield sofa, she peers down at her newly painted floorboards in the shade of damask which I think is just another name for white.

  ‘Anyway, he also said Hayden’s nastiness comes from the man’s stunted attempts to woo me—’

  ‘Woe you more like.’ This from Vee again.

  ‘Woo or woe, it’s unwelcome, though I still think he’s wrong about him fancying me. The idea is just a bit mad and very unhealthy. But in defence of Archer’s theory, Haydn’s stopped trolling me since.’

  ‘I told you. Didn’t I say so?’ Daisy declares excitedly, her finger pointing between us as though conducting a symphony. A symphony that makes no sense.

  ‘Well, the man is an arse, and I’m pleased someone threatened to sort him out. I think I like this Archer already.’ Vee curls her feet under her butt, resting her cup of camomile tea on the arm of the sofa. ‘You’re not eating.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘But I got those awful chips you like.’

  To stop her glaring at me, I reach over and grab a handful of the baked veggie chips.

  ‘I don’t know how you can eat those,’ Daisy complains, helping herself to a slice of prosciutto from the platter next to my chips. ‘I think they taste like shoe leather.’

  ‘See, I think they’re less sea salt and cracked pepper flavour and more cracked teeth. But you were saying?’ Vee makes a circling motion with her finger along with her recap. ‘Hotel. Weekend. Frightened the piss out of your boss.’

  ‘Maybe sorted him temporarily.’ I wiggle my shoulders, slightly annoyed and not quite sure why. ‘Then that evening, we had really hot, off the charts monkey sex—’

  ‘What?’ Daisy squeaks. ‘But you never do the dance with no pants outside of a relationship.’

  ‘Daisy, you remember what this Archer looked like. Joan of Arc would’ve given it up for him. And he’s so hot, she wouldn’t have needed that pyre afterwards.’

  ‘Anyway . . . ’ I begin again pointedly, ‘the next morning, we were going to travel back to London together when I bumped into this boy I used to know, and he ended up inviting himself to Sunday lunch.’

  ‘You don’t cook Sunday lunch. And if you did, why haven’t we been invited?’

  ‘Nut roast or meat substitute?’

  ‘Not me. Sundays are for lazing around, not feeding friends and family. Unless you’re my mum, I suppose. Sunday lunch at my parents’ house—’

  ‘This is more confusing than the plot to Interstellar.’ Daisy takes a sip of her diet Coke, her button nose scrunched.

  ‘And now Archer is ignoring you at work.’ Vivi asserts.

  ‘No. He’s been out of the office all week.’

  ‘Then he’s not returning your calls, totally ghosting you.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean then, exactly?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t called him. But he hasn’t called me, either. Except I got a really weird text last night.’

  Vee makes a grabby hand motion, like a toddler in a pram demanding the return of a dropped toy. I roll my eyes as I pull out my phone and pass it to her.

  ‘What’s up cake?’ Her gaze slides to me. ‘But you didn’t respond.’

  ‘What was I supposed to say to that? He’s been in Amsterdam all week working. I assumed he was off his face on edibles.’

  ‘And there’s your problem. You assumed. You could’ve picked up the phone and found out, and we wouldn’t have been having this conversation right now. Instead, you’d be regaling us with details of the all-important sex.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘We would’ve gotten the juicy details out of you. How long and so on.’

  ‘Pretty long. And girthy.’ I slap a hand over my mouth.

  ‘See? I didn’t even have to get out the thumb screws. Or the wine. Bugger it. I’m opening a bottle. Who’s up for a glass?’

  ‘Just a little one,’ says Daisy.

  ‘Make mine a pint jug.’ Because I feel like this is going to be one of those conversations.

  Vee makes her way into the open plan kitchen in her very girly Notting Hill pad, pulling out a bottle from her wine fridge. ‘Pinot Grigio?’

  ‘Oh, go on. If we must,’ I call back. Honestly, as if either Daisy or me would complain. ‘Can I have a glass of ice too, please?’

  ‘Philistine,’ she calls back. A minute later, she returns, setting three long stemmed fishbowl looking glasses on her reproduction Eames coffee table. Or maybe it is actually an Eames design. Vivi’s place is pretty swanky. ‘Tell us what this boy has to do with anything?’ Twisting the cap from the wine, she begins her generous pour.

  ‘Just two fingers for me,’ Daisy adds quickly.

  ‘That’s what she said.’ Vee sends me expressive kind of glance, one that ends in a cackle.

  ‘Actually,’ I begin, silently congratulating myself for not glaring back—what is it with me? I’m in such a cranky mood. ‘Boy is what he was back when he lived next door, though I knew him as a golden retriever, but that was a long time ago.’

  ‘Are you on edibles?’

  ‘He’s not a boy or a dog. He’s a doctor. He lived next door when we were growing up, and he used to be all blond and bouncy like
the breed. He still is a little bit. And I think he wants to see me again. You know, see me see me.’

  ‘Based on what? Is he answering your calls?’

  ‘I haven’t rung him, either. He works in Africa. We’re communicating via email.’

  ‘That will be right up your street. No face-to-face communication. Love by email!’

  ‘You’re in a very mean mood today, Vee.’

  ‘And you’re in a very tetchy one.’ She inhales deeply. ‘Jetlag is kicking my butt. I haven’t slept since I got back from New York two days ago. I’m sorry, but I worry about you. You don’t date, then you date a man just to have someone to take you to a wedding. When he dumps you, you somehow—and this is only one part of this whole thing I don’t understand—you force someone you work with to take you to this wedding. And now there’s someone else? Can’t you just see how things go with Archer first?’

  ‘It won’t go anywhere. He’s made that clear already. He’s a serial shagger, and I’m not in the market to be shagged. Serially.’

  ‘I am.’ Vee shrugs. ‘Maybe Cupid should’ve sent him to me.’

  I find myself glowering back at my friend.

  ‘Ha! Did you see that?’ Here head swings quickly to Daisy. ‘She’s interested in him.’

  ‘So? It doesn’t mean anything if he’s not interested in me. But Barney, actually his name is really William, he’s interested in me. And he’s a good guy. A doctor. And he’s kind. But then again, so is Archer. But what Barney is and Archer definitely isn’t is safe. And reliable—he’s already sent me two emails this week. Meanwhile, Archer hasn’t called once!’ Despite this fact, I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way his voice seems to vibrate under my skin, making me all shivery and goose-bumpy when he brings his lips to my ear. The way he’d spread open my legs that very first time, his eyes tracking up my body just daring me to deny him. Those hungry, insatiable eyes, eliminating all need for words, eyes that turned dark and languid as he finally slid into me with a curse.