The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Drink?’ I repeat manically.

  ‘You’re not planning on running away, are you?’ Along with the sly question, he presses his index finger onto the back of my phone, sliding it to the opposite corner of the table.

  Well, I won’t be going anywhere without my phone now, will I? But it’s not like I was planning on creeping out and leaving my coat, even if my ultimate plans are escape. When Vee calls.

  ‘Oh, of course not. So, drink?’

  ‘That’s very decent of you. I’ll have a glass of the house Pinot Noir, but watch the barmaid pour it, would you, there’s a love. We had a little altercation last time we were here.’

  Huh. Maybe I’ve just found out why this place is called The Spit and Sawdust.

  Huh. Maybe I’ve just found out why this place is called The Spit and Sawdust.

  I got to the bar, anyway. Order him his drink. Try and fail to get the attention of the only female member of the bar staff who looks pretty badass. Feline eyes thanks to lashings of liner, and a jet-black bob. She looks like she could seriously kick butt, especially with that elaborate nose ring. Anyone who gets a hole poked in their nose is not to be trifled with.

  After dragging out the process as long as possible, I trip back over to the table. It can’t be more than twenty minutes until Vee calls. Buck up, buttercup; you’ve worked with Haydn, king of the offensive tosspots, I tell myself.

  ‘Cheers, babe.’

  I bite my tongue from asking him if he’s seen the movie and if he saw any of himself in it. But I don’t. I can suffer his company until I can exit without any fuss. Roll on dying Auntie Nelly.

  So we talk, or rather he does. And he talks. And he talks and he talks and he talks. And guess what? I don’t suffer from any kind of anxiety because I don’t have to take part. Actually, I can’t. Mainly because he’s too fond of his own bloody voice!

  I find out he does like dogs. Sort of. And he likes country parks.

  Actually, no. I got that wrong because he likes dogging. Yes, dogging. You know that quaint British pastime of taking ones BMW to local parks or woodlands and having sex, either in the back seat or against the hood, in view of others who are there for the same thing? As for foreign cinema, I’m sure you can guess that he likes hardcore European porn. And his eighty-year-old granny? He pops around to her Chelsea house every couple of days to make sure she hasn’t snuffed it. Apparently, he’s waiting for his inheritance.

  He talks about his ex-girlfriend who, technically, he stalks.

  He talks about his job and the rich old dears just asking to be defrauded. ‘Strictly entre nous,’ he says tapping his (clearly no longer sore) nose.

  He talks about his recreational drug habit—quelle surprise.

  On the plus side, he compliments me on my appearance, though he isn’t interested in anything I have to say. And he interrupts me when I do manage to get a word in edgeways.

  In short, this date is the stuff of nightmares and I’m not sure if time has slowed or if the girls are teaching me a lesson by allowing fictitious Auntie Nelly to rally from deaths door, but what I do know is Vivi. Hasn’t. Called.

  ‘So, fancy coming around to mine to fuck after this?’

  ‘Hold that thought,’ I mutter, pushing back my chair as I slide my hand over toward my phone, realising its nearer his side of the table than mine. Strange. ‘I just have to pop to the ladies’ room.’ I loop my purse from the back of my chair feeling slightly uncomfortable that he seems to be looking mightily superior over there. Why? When I’m clearly making all the moves to escape? Sparing my duff date another thought, I make my way to the ladies as part of my rouse, but also to call Vee.

  You know, just in case I need her to summon the cavalry.

  But . . . my phone is flat!

  It charged it earlier today, and while it isn’t a brand-new model, the battery is still pretty good. However, there’s no confusing the lifeless screen.

  Holy fucksticks, what in the world is going on?

  I’m tapping my phone to my chin and my foot to the tiled bathroom floor, contemplating hiding out here until someone with a phone wanders in, when I notice the sign next to the hand dryer. Actually, I notice the condom machine on the other side of the dryer first. A McCondom machine selling two whisky flavoured condoms for a £1.50. That’s a whole new take on whisky dick.

  But back to the sign which reads:

  ARE YOU ON A DATE THAT’S GOING A LITTLE BIT PANTS?

  WORRY NOT IF YOUR TINDER DATE OR PLENTY OF FISH HOTTIE TURNS OUT NOT TO BE A CATCH

  OR IF THEY AREN’T WHO THEY SAID THEY WERE ON THEIR PROFILE.

  ARE YOUR SPIDEY SENSES TINGLING OR DO YOU FEEL A LITTLE WEIRDED OUT?

  THEN JUST ASK OUR BAR STAFF FOR A HOMEGIRL

  NEAT: OUR BURLY BARMAN WILL ESCORT YOU TO YOUR VEHICLE

  WITH ICE: WE’LL CALL YOU A CAB

  A DOUBLE: WE’LL CALL THE POLICE

  And we’ll do this discreetly and with the minimum of fuss.

  You can count on us, homegirl!

  Halleluiah. It looks like I’m going home with the minimum of fuss.

  I tug on the bathroom door, and step out into the pub to find my date watching the door like a hawk waiting for a field mouse to pop out and say hello. I force myself to smile and raise my hand in a small wave which quickly becomes the universal sign for do you want another drink.

  And of course he does.

  He must think he’s died and gone to heaven, I grumble to myself as my heels clop against the scuffed wooden floorboards. Someone who listened to his very poor craic, bought his drinks, and who he thinks is going home with him. I wonder how many times this has worked for him. And he looked so normal, too.

  At the bar, the lone female is serving a customer. Oh, now she’s leaning over the bar top, tugging a lock of his hair with a grin. Yep, totally flirting. But still, I feel there might be a sense of solidarity in bringing my problem date to her attention rather than one of the two men working the bar alongside her.

  So I wait, angling my body slightly her way. It’s early for a Saturday and it doesn’t take too long before she’s in front of me.

  ‘Is someone taking care of you, darling?’ To complete the badassery, she has a totally sexy accent. Eastern European, maybe? She’s hot, even if you aren’t into girls.

  ‘Yes, I’d like a homegirl, please. With ice,’ I add heavily.

  ‘Oh, man,’ she mutters under her breath as she grabs a glass from under the counter. ‘It’s that skurwiel you’re with, yes?’

  ‘I don’t know what one of those is, but I can tell you it’s the man at the table one away from the door. Clean cut and quite ordinary looking?’

  ‘That’s the one. He’s also a motherfucker, which is skurwiel in Polish.’

  ‘He did say you’d met.’

  ‘Tinder.’ She spits the one word by way of explanation. ‘He’s no good, but we will help you.’

  ‘Another one of these, when you’ve got a minute, Zuze.’

  ‘Wait your turn. Can you not see I am busy?’ It might sound like a reprimand, but it’s delivered with good humour, not to mention a little flirtatiously. Maybe the kind of flirtation you expect from a large Russian lady ready to give you a thorough scrubbing in a banya. With scolding and a good slap. And why wouldn’t she be flirting with the man who owns that voice?

  I know that voice. I remember it well. It’s teasing and taunts. It’s demands that I come hard—come now. I turn and take in the sight of Archer Powell roughing his hands through his thick hair, an action that pulls his T-shirt sleeves taut over his biceps. It’s an unconscious motion of a man who looks pretty tired. He’s eyes are ringed with dark circles, his cheeks covered in a rasp of dark stubble.

  ‘Hello, Archer.’

  ‘Heather!’ His expression morphs through a myriad of expressions finally settling into something that looks a little like he’s pleased to see me. ‘How are you?’

  ‘She’s been better,’ Zuze answers for me, drawing his attent
ion. ‘You remember that prick I went on the Tinder date with? Well, she’s here with him.’

  ‘And here I thought I had your heart.’ The sudden grit in his tone feels like a brush with punishment.

  ‘Really?’ I ask softly. ‘You want to start that in here?’

  ‘Okay. I think I leave you two to it,’ Zuze says, though before she moves down the bar, she waves a finger in Archer’s direction. ‘But don’t leave her alone. Not with him around. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Is he now,’ Archer murmurs, his eyes on Jeremy. Dangerous? Dangerously boring, maybe. ‘Wait here for a minute, will you, babe?’

  ‘Stop calling me babe—where are you going? Archer?’

  Disregarding my questions, he strides confidently over to Jeremy, dropping himself into the chair I’d recently vacated. Though I can’t see the other man’s expression, I can see Archer’s and he looks quite relaxed. His posture is open, his expression even . . . until he sits forward quite suddenly, his whole demeanour changing. If you’d asked me five minutes ago what role Archer would play in a movie, I’d have said he’d be cast as the boy next door because the boy next door in Hollywood is always ridiculously handsome, all smiles and affability. Except for now, when it has suddenly become evident he has a dark side. Fierce and frightening, he looks more likely to play a mafioso with those dark looks. And as his eyes slide back to the bar and he looks at me, my knees almost give way and my internal organs almost burst.

  Okay, maybe my ovaries.

  Serious Archer Powell brings more than just the sexy.

  A moment later, his eyes turn back to the man in front of him. He seems to say just one more thing before Jeremy is up out of his seat and walking to the exit without once acknowledging me. And then Archer’s in front of me, those brilliant eyes of his staring down.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Tiny shivers of anticipation run down my spine at his tone. I don’t answer, giving myself just a moment or two to revel in the sound. In his care. I’ve thought a lot about him while he’s been gone, and some of those things haven’t made a lot of sense. But amongst the chaos and the confusion, one thing I know to be true. Something about me changed the night I slept with him.

  ‘Babe? Say something.’ His hand cups my face, his eyes darting behind me, shaking his head at whatever question is being asked.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I might’ve threatened to use his balls as decorations if he so much as looked you way ever again. He won’t be back, Zuze.’ His hand moves away as his eyes slide to the woman behind. I feel the snap of our connection acutely. Archer was the one whose hair she was pulling. He was the one she was flirting with. He’s all soft smiles as he the speaks, mainly over my head, and why wouldn’t he. The pair are as perfectly paired as a couple of exotic birds. Meanwhile, this little robin is left pecking at the ground because he’s not looking so pleased as he turns his attention back to me.

  ‘What the hell were you doing out with a prick like him?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I answer without much conviction, my eyes dropping to my shoes. To think I wasted these beauties on a night like this. ‘I think I’m just going to head home.’

  ‘I think you owe me an explanation.’ His hand cups my chin, bringing my gaze level with his demanding one, such chaos contained in those blue simmering depths. Angry looks good on him. Despite the reaction this elicits in my knickers, my mind reaches for snark, feeding it seamlessly to my mouth.

  ‘Who do you think you are? My dad?’

  Archer leans closer, his face level with mine. ‘I thought I was supposed to be your boyfriend,’ he says, and not at all like he’s pleased about the fact.

  ‘Hmm. See, I thought a boyfriend would’ve told me he’d be in Amsterdam this week.’

  ‘I might’ve done if I hadn’t been dismissed Sunday morning. How was lunch, by the way?’

  ‘Awkward, if you must know. I felt pretty crappy about the way we ended things.’

  The heat in his gaze melts a touch and as he straightens, he rolls his shoulders as though his T-shirt is a little too tight. For the record, it’s not. It’s pretty perfect. Worn and soft, it clings to all the delicious bits of him. So sue me, I can’t help but notice these things.

  ‘You didn’t answer my text,’ he says a little gruffly.

  ‘What’s up cake?’ I feel my expression twist as I repeat the text verbatim. It’s not hard to recall, apart from only being three nonsensical words long, I might have obsessed a little about it. What does it mean? Is it a typo? Some kind of obscure reference I’m too oblivious by nature to understand? And yes, I also googled it.

  And I’ve still got nothing.

  ‘Muffin much.’ His answer is accompanied by a cheeky grin.

  I find myself sniggering while trying to look at him reproachfully. Without much luck. ‘Out of all the things you might’ve said, you send me that?’

  Oh my goodness, Archer’s making silly cake jokes. That’s so . . . adorably strange! But also, it sort of excuses him from dropping off the face of the earth for the week. Sort of. I thought he’d moved on from Saturday without a second thought, which made it easier to blame him. To not contact him. While I’m relieved this isn’t the case, my moral high ground is currently crumbling under my feet.

  ‘I had a whole load of stuff like that if you’d only have responded.’

  ‘Shut up! You did not.’

  ‘What kind of cake asks you to lend him ten pounds?’

  ‘A poor one?’

  ‘No, a sponge cake.’

  ‘That is so bad.’ But I’m giggling all the same.

  ‘What’s the most expensive kind of cake? Madeira cake. If only you’d answered. I had a dozen more like that,’ he says, flicking a soft wisp of my hair before sliding his hands into his pockets as though to stop himself from touching me.

  ‘Instead I assumed you were somewhere in Europe getting baked yourself.’

  ‘Shows what you know. So, are you going to tell me why you were trawling Tinder?’

  And it was going so well.

  ‘I wasn’t trawling Tinder. It was E-Volve—and there’s nothing wrong in looking for connections.’

  ‘Connections,’ he repeats, though not in the same tone. More sneary. And a little snarly.

  ‘Yes, I have the app after working for them as a startup a few years ago.’

  ‘Use it often, do you? To fill up those lonely Saturday nights.’

  ‘Screw you!’ I make to pull away, the sudden onset of tears already stinging my eyes, when his hand wraps around my shoulder, stilling me.

  ‘Heather, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ I dash away an escaped bastarding tear with the back of my hand looking anywhere but at him. ‘If you must know I’ve used it twice in the six years I’ve owned it. Clearly, app based dating isn’t for me.’ Or maybe dating period. Except I refuse to give in. Other people manage. Every day in London alone, hundreds of people meet the one. Others marrying or settle down. I can’t be the only one struggling, can I?

  ‘You could’ve called me you know. If you had an itch to scratch.’

  I almost don’t pick up on his meaning, my mind locked in cycle of manic questioning. But then I realise his thumb is brushing the edges of my collarbone.

  ‘We got on well together, didn’t we?

  His hand dips, his index finger beginning to slide along the neck of my sweater, tantalising my skin and making me shiver with longing. It’s a reaction I’ll always associate with him because no one has ever made me feel the way he does. He can make the world around me feel flimsy and inconsequential with just one look.

  ‘Archer.’ And that look is dark and oh-so enticing as I wrap my hand over his. ‘Are you propositioning me?’

  ‘Is it still a proposition if we’re supposed to be dating?’ he muses, his mouth hitching in one corner.

  My thoughts scatter like grains of sand in brisk wind and I don’t realise I’m chewing my li
p until he tugs at it with his thumb.

  ‘Don’t think too hard about it,’ he adds a touch sardonically. ‘I don’t remember you being so indecisive last time.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I swallow, the words almost taking more lung capacity than I currently have. ‘It’s . . . it’s complicated.’

  ‘Then why don’t we go someplace else to talk about it. Your place or mine?’

  And just like that, I join the long list of Archer Powell’s conquests as I answer,

  ‘Yours.’

  24

  Archer

  I call an Uber, Heather asking the driver if she can use his charger to charge her phone on the way. The minute it flicks back to life, it begins ringing.

  ‘My phone went flat.’ She immediately launches into conversation, stern words spoken from the other end. ‘That’s the weirdest thing, Vee, it had plenty of charge and it just went flat, poof! That’s why you couldn’t call. Yeah, I bloody needed it, he was a nightmare. No, not the five inches thing.’ She turns to me with an arch look as I begin to snigger. ‘Of course I’m not with him now. I’m not a total idiot. What? I’m with Archer. You know, the guy from work?’

  There’s a note in her voice that tells me this isn’t the first time I’ve been spoken about, and that’s without the chorus of eager squeals coming from her phone right now. Heather turns her shoulder to me, whisper-hissing her next words into the handset.

  ‘Thanks for that. Yes, I’m pretty sure he heard. I pretty sure the borough of Westminster heard. Shoreditch. Yes, on our way now. Well, Vee, that leaves quite a wide scope of all the things I can arguably get involved in. Yes, I’m sure I will. You have a lovely evening, too.’

  Her cheeks are a delicious red as drops her phone to her knee, pressing them together rather primly.

  ‘I take it your friends are happy you’re alive?’

  ‘They are today. They might not be tomorrow.’

  ‘Could I have a look at your phone? Just for a minute.’ With a quizzical look, she passes it to me and watches as I open up Safari to find there are literally forty tabs open all for the same thing. The Pit and Sawdust website. The brightness is turned up. The Wi-Fi is on and searching for a network to join, the same goes for her Bluetooth. Push button notifications are activated for every fifteen minutes.