The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  Why can’t he be the one who wants me? Truly wants me?

  Silently, he takes my knickers from my hand, unravelling with more finesse that I can currently command. Then, in a manner so gentle he presses his knee to the rug, holding them out for me to step into.

  ‘In you hop.’

  I open my mouth, not quite sure what I’m about to say, when something wet and cold touches my bottom, causing me to swing around.

  ‘Ew, Elvis! Get off!’ I almost stumble, my arm on Archer’s broad shoulder the only thing keeping me upright.

  ‘It’s like I said. Nothing is sacred in this house.’

  It’s hard to remain dignified when your bottom is bare and your lady bits are in the face of the man who. . . I suppose he just had his face in them anyway. But I’m not about to let his dog become on more intimate terms with any of me. So I give in, acquiesce, use Archer’s shoulder as I step into my unmentionables, further allowing him to pull them slowly up my legs.

  ‘Well, that was strangely erotic,’ he murmurs, his thumbs brushing my hipbones. ‘No thanks to the mutt.’ He pushes to a stand, sliding his hands though my hair as he tilts my face. ‘You like this Barney, then?’

  My answer? I shrug because I really don’t know. He doesn’t frustrate me nearly as much as Archer does, so there is that.

  ‘I know he likes me. That’s enough for now.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll ever see you like this,’ he asks, a note of something hard to discern in his tone.

  ‘No one has ever seen me like you do.’ And that’s the absolute truth. He’s certainly seen bits of me no one else has, too.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink,’ he says, taking my hand to lead me from the room. I snatch up his discarded T-shirt, pulling my hand free to slip it on.

  In the kitchen, it turns out Archer has beer, beer, beer, or vodka. And milk, primarily for his morning cereal. I opt for the latter when he tells me he doesn’t know how to use the shiny coffee machine. Plus, he doesn’t appear to own a kettle. And while it’s not exactly coffee time, I’m wide awake. Wide awake and wired. A little anxious and a lot confused. I’ve hurt his feelings somehow. I know I really misread what happened at the castle, but somehow I know that’s not it.

  The answer comes to me a moment later with a metaphoric yet still painful slap to my head. We’ve just had sex, mind blowingly awesome sex—again—and I’m talking about someone else. Great, I can add insensitive idiot to the list of stuff I dislike about myself.

  As Archer fills my glass, I take the opportunity to glance around Archer’s personal space. The kitchen is compact, the cabinets pale and super glossy and looking out into an open plan living space. The windows are large and dome like, and I’m hoping they have some kind of privacy coating that stops people seeing in as I pull his T-shirt farther down my thighs. A grey sectional sofa is littered with what looks like scattered cushions made from denim, one of which Elvis is currently using as a holding place for his bum. More Danish looking furniture and a rug with diagonal stripes, a small dining setting with a space-age looking lamp hanging over it, and a TV you could probably watch football on from space.

  The space is pristine. Neat and clean, and not at all like any of my brother’s homes. The only personal items around, the only indicators that this room isn’t a posh furniture showroom; the pair of running shoes on the floor next to the sofa and an abandoned rabbit chew toy. Oh, and Elvis, of course.

  And he has plants. Plants and a dog. And yet I can’t manage to keep a goldfish afloat.

  I take a seat at a tall stool as Archer cracks open a beer, draining half of it immediately as he leans against the cabinet opposite. I can’t take my eyes off him. His body is so lean and defined. Quads. Abs. Biceps and those shoulder caps things. He looks like a swimwear model with the exception of his just-fucked hair.

  ‘Are you looking at something in particular?’ he asks with a lazy grin.

  ‘Did you decorate this place yourself?’ I instantly swing around in my chair. ‘It’s so stylish.’

  When I turn around again, his smile is no longer in residence. All the beautiful obliques as he twists at the waist to put down his bottle. He leans back again, his hands gripping the countertop, making the muscles in his arms and abs pop.

  Is he doing it on purpose?

  ‘A developer bought the building,’ he says eventually. It takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about. ‘This place used to be an old warehouse before it was gutted, most apartments sold off plan. This flat was one of the last to go. It was dressed to help it sell and I persuaded them to throw the furniture in.’

  ‘It’s really lovely.’

  ‘Yeah, so you said. So, this plan of yours. You know, if he loves you, or even just likes you at this point, he won’t care about your dating history. In fact, for some blokes, your inexperience might work in your favour if—’

  ‘It’s not about him,’ I answer, my whole body on edge. Archer snorts derisively. ‘It’s true,’ I insist. ‘It’s about me and how I feel. And most of the time I feel pretty crappy when I’m pushed out of my comfort zone.’

  ‘Dating as, like, exposure therapy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Relief washes over me as it seems he gets it. ‘I just want to go out for dinner or drinks without worrying I’m being abrasive or offensive, or bloody weird.’ My eyes drop to the glass in front of me and I run my finger through the condensation.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘What?’ My head snaps up. ‘You’ll do what?’

  ‘I’ll date you. Be your study buddy. Your fuck buddy.’ He throws out a very whatever gesture. ‘We’re already supposed to be dating according to the office.’

  ‘I’m not sure they really believe us,’ I find myself babbling. ‘I can’t ask you to do it.’ Can I? ‘You’d be giving up your social life and—’

  ‘You mean give up fucking?’ My mouth falls open but before I can reply, he speaks again. ‘Because I’ll be fucking you, won’t I?’

  ‘Look, Archer, I like you a lot. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? We have roots and a backstory. And it’s not like you’re one hundred percent comfortable around me. And I’m hardly likely to lull you into a false sense of security when you’re always picking fault.’

  ‘I don’t pick fault. We’re just different people.’

  ‘Of course we are. I’m a bloke. A bloke who’s willing to expose himself,’ he adds with a wicked sounding chuckle as I begin to impersonate a guppy. ‘You know you like it when I do that, though not nearly as much as you like it when I fuck my own hand.’

  ‘Can you just be serious for a minute,’ I demand, ignoring the tempting visual because yes, as it turns out I do like seeing him do that. Hard and wet tipped. Those veins standing proud. Argh! Why is my mind so easily distracted by sex? And why is getting a straight answer from Archer like herding naughty kittens?

  ‘I am being serious. Tell me how you think you’ll get a better offer than this,’ he says with a flourish that wouldn’t look out of place on a game show. Tonight’s star prize is . . . Archer Powell!

  ‘Maybe I’ll enjoy the novelty of dating different men all the time. Who knows?’

  ‘It seems like you’ve forgotten the jolly time you had in the Spit and Sawdust already. How long before Bill comes back?’

  ‘It’s William. Or Barney.’ I shake my head. He really is too amused by this whole thing. ‘And he’ll be back in May.’

  ‘So, seven weeks? Say, three dates a week conservatively. Three multiplied by seven is twenty-one dates. Can you face doing what you did last night twenty more times?’

  Despite my best attempts at remaining passive, I find myself grimacing. Twenty more nights getting ready while trying not to be sick. Twenty more times sitting alone somewhere while waiting and wondering. Oh, hell. Twenty more suitable date venues to find so as not to draw attention to myself.

  Look, there’s that woman again. Didn’t she wea
r that dress last week? Wasn’t she with a different man? I wonder if he’ll stay more than five minutes this time?

  Why did I think this was such a good idea again?

  ‘You’ve gone very pale, babe. I think I’m becoming more appealing by the minute. You know, like that’s even possible.’

  ‘Stop talking, please.’ Give my poor aching brain a little respite.

  ‘You don’t have to hide it from me, babe. I know the score.’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’ My tone is pure exasperation, my head fit to burst.

  ‘Your resistance. You’re just worried you might become a little too attached to me.’

  And that’s pretty much how Archer Powell is elevated from the position of fake boyfriend to temporary stand in.

  27

  Archer

  Your place or mine?

  She deserved better than that—I deserved better than that. But like a bad habit that’s hard to kick, I’d relied on those same rhythms.

  Your place or mine. It’s not quite promising forever and for always, is it? Or even let’s give this a shot. It doesn’t paint the same pictures, no matter what you think you might mean.

  What you might hope she’ll see in your actions.

  What you might hope she’ll see in your eyes.

  Takes a crazy to know a crazy. I’d said that, too.

  And I must be fucking mental for taking the coward’s way out, stopping myself at the last minute from telling her I’m crazy about her—crazy for her. What if I hadn’t stopped myself? What if I’d just had the balls to say the words? I wouldn’t have offered to date her as an experiment. As a stand-in for someone else.

  If I had told the truth, would it be better or worse?

  Better because at least I’d know if she was interested.

  Worse if she’d said she wasn’t.

  But at least I’d know, and I wouldn’t be sitting here, my gut twisted and heart aching at the thought of her with someone else. Someone wrong for her. Because how can anyone else but me be right for her when I want her this much?

  And absolutely, the sex is great, and I know it can only get better for my wanting of her. But honestly, sex is more like a bonus at this point. The best thing about being with Heather is just that—the being with her. Being close to her funny mouth and her wonderful mind and her quirks. No one has ever intrigued me like she does.

  How the fuck could I have put any of that into words?

  For future reference, is there an app that could do that for me?

  Apps. Fuck. She’s not ready to be exposed to the online dating world. To men whose lies fall easily, their sole focus the end of the date and whether or not there will be fucking. I know it’s not that black and white—I’ve had both Tinder and E-Volve on my phone. They’re like takeaway for relationships. A quick and unsatisfying fix. Something to fill the whole, pardon the pun.

  But that’s not to say it only works one way because there are plenty of women out there in search of the same kind of connection. Women interested in nothing but an uncomplicated fuck. And more power to them. That’s where these apps have their use; joining people whose wants and desires intersect.

  That’s not Heather.

  Heather’s plan is barely sane.

  And yeah, so I’m offering to protect her. But not out of the goodness of my heart.

  I’m not going to be passive. I’ll be pulling out all the stops because I’ll be fucked if I’m going to let her walk off at the end of this. Walk off into the sunset holding someone else’s hand.

  Someone who doesn’t deserve her.

  Someone who hadn’t worked hard to be seen by her—truly seen.

  Someone she’s chosen because she thinks he’s a safe bet.

  Because I can tell her something for nothing, something I’ve learned recently, and that’s none of us are safe from love. And she’s not safe from mine.

  28

  Heather

  I’d imagined dating Archer on a semipermanent basis would be awkward, at least to begin with. I hadn’t expected it to be anywhere as easy as it is. There are no forced conversations, no awkward pauses with gaps to be filled, and we spend much of our time laughing or arguing. Or laughing while arguing. And in the process of this, I’ve come to know so many of his smiles. The languid and lazy ones that are nothing but sin and seduction. His cheeky smiles and his boyish ones and my absolute favourite, the entirely spontaneous one that take ups half of his face.

  That phrase, joie de vivre? It could’ve been created for him. He has a joy for life that’s infectious, and lives life at such a frenetic pace. And he seems to be invited to everything! Trips to the pub, house and dinner parties, and events and openings of things. There are client functions to attend where he insists I come along as his plus one, as his partner in life, crime, and career. Even if it is just temporary.

  Last week, we were at a business function when I told a PR bitch that, not only was Archer gay, but he liked twinks. I told her, as a (gorgeously) full figured individual, and a woman no less, she’d be last on his list of easy fucks.

  She deserved it. She should’ve been more discreet. Because I overheard her telling her friend she was gonna hit that.

  Not on my watch, bitch.

  Weird, but when I told Archer all this, he seemed highly entertained.

  He has such a full and varied social life that I sometimes find it hard to believe he has space on his calendar for work. He really is the proverbial life of the party. People just seem to flock to him. Of course, he’s not the one working two jobs. So in order to spend “quality” time together, we’d planned to spend Saturday mornings together. Maybe a brisk walk with Elvis, followed by a little breakfast in a dog friendly café somewhere, allowing me to head off to work in the afternoon. In reality, it hasn’t quite gone according to plan and I’ve begun to pass more and more of my responsibilities onto Daisy, who thankfully needs the money, and makes a fabulous swashbuckling pirate as well as a beautiful fairy.

  However, this Saturday morning is a very rare day because neither Daisy nor I are required this afternoon. I feel like I’ve been neglecting my friends so suggest the three of us meet for brunch.

  ‘Where did his sexiness take you last night?’ Daisy asks over eggs benny.

  ‘How do you know we went anywhere?’

  ‘Because you’ve barely had a night in since you started to date him.’

  This is true. Even on the rare occasion we don’t have plans, we seem to end up together.

  ‘She means fake-date him,’ Vee interjects.

  ‘We went to a diner in Spitalfields,’ I respond, ignoring that. We’re not fake dating. Everything about our relationship is real, except the bit where we intend it to last. Also in the way where I can’t really be sure how Archer feels. I mean, I know he feels some things and in some ways. I know when he’s unhappy because he gets all pensive, like last night, for instance.

  ‘A diner? That doesn’t sound very exciting for a Friday night outing.’ Vivi spears a lump of halloumi on her fork, examining it critically before popping it into her mouth.

  ‘At first glance, that’s what I thought. Although pancakes and maple syrup for dinner sounded pretty good.’ Especially as we’d gone straight to his place from work, bypassing dinner in favour of tumbling into bed. No food was had, just lots of devouring. Sex with Archer is always pretty special and I’m finding that with each day that passes, I become more and more comfortable in my own skin. Maybe because I spend so much time in it when I’m with him.

  Yep, I mean naked.

  Last night, his grip on my hips had been punishing, his movements fierce as he’d begun to move harder and deeper into me. He’s expression was so dark as his brows had knitted in concentration in that way I knew he was close. Close but not willing to give in. Just thinking about it, thinking about him, makes my insides tighten and stomach flutter because there is nothing quite as breathtaking as when he finally let’s go. When he finally gives in and lets his
climax wash through him. I’m filled with such a sense of satisfaction as I feel him pulsing inside me, and he holds me so tightly, almost as though he’s worried I might slip away.

  But that’s sex with Archer. Everyday Archer isn’t the same. It’s so strange how I used to think of him as being all surface and no depths. It was such an unfair judgement because the man has complexities I’m not sure I’ll ever understand.

  But yes, last night.

  ‘I was more than ready for fluffy pancakes.’ After working up such an appetite in the bedroom. Not that I got them in the end.

  ‘You should be the size of the house,’ Vee mutters, examining my brunch before returning to her eggwhite omelette and dandelion salad or whatever else that is accompanying those slices of halloumi. Meanwhile, I have granary toast, avocado smash, free ranged poached eggs and grilled heirloom tomatoes.

  ‘Anyway, pancakes were off the menu because before we’d even sat down, Archer told the waitress that we were there to see the Mayor of Scaredy-Cat Ville.’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  I send Vee an unimpressed look.

  ‘No, but I felt a little puzzled myself when we were ushered to one of those fifties American style fridges and basically shoved inside.’

  ‘No way!’ Daisy cries, clapping her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Turns out, that was the way down to Scaredy-Cat Ville.’

  ‘Was it in the basement?’ Daisy asks and I nod. ‘I’ve heard about that place—the cocktails are supposed to be really decent. Was it any good?’

  ‘It was, if you don’t mind me saying, the cat’s whiskers. Ba-boom-ching!’ Both girls groan but I carry on regardless. ‘At first glance, it looked a bit like a preppers bunker. You now, pipes running along the ceiling, mismatched furniture, and stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls.’