by Alam, Donna
‘I’ll just watch, if you don’t mind.’ I pull up a seat from the corner of the room, positioning it so I’m facing her desk, because there’s nothing more fun than watching her put stuff into her mouth. Some things are more fun than others, if you know what I mean. ‘You could start a YouTube channel. I hear there’s money to be made from perverts who want to watch pretty girls eat.’
‘Because that wasn’t an awkward suggestion,’ she mutters, the thing balanced in front of her as she examines it. ‘But it’s strawberry, right?’ I nod. ‘Then I’m definitely not going to let you put me off.’
‘As if,’ As if it were even possible where sugar is concerned.
‘You know there are people out there,’ she says, delicately pointing in the direction of the open plan office behind, ‘pretending not to watch you watching me eat this?’
‘They want to watch me eat your cupcake?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Eat the damn cupcake, Heather, before it goes stale.’
‘No.’ She lowers it, opening the deep drawer under her desk and placing it inside. ‘I don’t think I will.’ Once it’s closed again, she locks it. ‘It’ll be something to look forward to after the meeting.’
‘I’d rather give you something else to look forward to.’
‘But not while we’re at work,’ she asserts with a very prim and professional glance my way. ‘Shall we go and make sure we get good seats?’
‘We’re not at the movies, babe.’
‘No, but somehow I always seem to get the chair with the wonky wheel. I think someone leaves it out for me on purpose. One of these days, the thing is going to collapse and I’ll end up falling and flashing my knickers to the world.’
‘I suppose we’d better go and get seats, then. It’ll be easier than murdering everyone.’
‘What? For giving me the wonky chair?’
‘No, I’d have to murder all those who copped a flash.’
‘Idiot,’ she says, laughing as she stands.
‘I don’t mind meetings with a purpose.’ I’m still bitching and complaining as we make our way through the brightly lit office space and into the glass bubble that is the meeting room.
‘They should supply food. It’d make things more bearable.’
‘You mean cakes.’
‘Have you worked at places that offer meeting cupcakes? And if so, how do I get a job at one of these unicorn spaces?’ We slow to a stop and I’m sure to those paying attention, it looks like we’re having a serious discussion. And I suppose we are. Heather is always serious about sugar.
‘Maybe pastries at best. If you’re lucky there might be a bean-to-cup coffee machine if you work somewhere really posh. C’mon. Let’s go see the aunties,’ I say, begin to walk again.
‘Aunties?’
‘I’m sure you’ve met them all in there before. Many, many times. Anti-collaboration, anti-team, anti-tech, and anti me.’
‘Ha. Give it up, boy wonder. Everyone likes a bit of Archer Powell.’
‘Ah, but no one gets any of this but you.’
‘And that’s the way I like it,’ she says, turning sassily on her heel as I push open the glass door for her to walk through. It’s not an entirely altruistic thing to do because I also get a sneaky flash of that pert little arse. Yep, that’s something I’d like from her too, but you can only work with what you have.
And I haven’t had that. Yet.
Tar-like coffees poured, we take our seats at the glossy boardroom table where Jay is already tinkering with the whiteboard.
‘Whotcha, Arch,’ he says, then, ‘how are you, Heather?’ The latter is said a touch bashfully. I’m aware I’ve pissed on his parade by dating the object of his affection, but I’ve been good enough not to murder him for those crass comments he made before.
All fights and makeup sex he’d said they’d be.
Though he had the right idea. I’ve never had as much fun as I have with Heather.
The pair continue to exchange pleasantries as people begin to file in, filling coffee cups and chatting, nodding as they pass. It’s a pretty regular Monday morning but the one thing I notice is how much more relaxed Heather seems. A few weeks ago, she’d have her eyes glued to the screen of her phone until the meeting began. It wasn’t hard to see that she didn’t want to get involved. She’d speak when spoken to, usually prompted by Haydn when he’d bat a question or a demand her way. I’m not going to say the change in her is all my doing even if I do feel a sense of pride watching her blossom.
‘What are you smirking at?’ she asks suddenly, pulling me from my happy musing.
‘I was just thinking of changing my name to ’Enry ’Iggins.’
‘Okay,’ she answers carefully. ‘Whatever tickles your pickle, I suppose.’ Her gaze glides away but moves back sharply. ‘You mean Henry Higgins, professor?’ She enunciates the words with a perfectly sharp Sloan Square accent.
I lean back as though to glance behind her, bringing my lips closer to her ears. ‘Keep your knickers on, my fair lady. I was just thinking about how relaxed you seem. Something to do with this morning’s activities, maybe?’
To my surprise and utter delight, Heather initiated things this morning. The light outside was grey, heavy rain lashing against the windows and tempting me to hit snooze on my morning alarm. Even Elvis, who’s usually eager to get outside first thing for his morning sniff, had lumbered off the bed only to climb into his basket and begin snoring softly again. I’d stayed on my back, one arm flung out in the direction of my phone, warding off the workday for a little bit longer, enjoying the ambient play of the light; the contrast of the rainy grey clouding the windows and the light in the room. Heather had stirred, reaching for the glass of water she likes to keep at her side of the bed. The next thing I knew, she was dragging two wet fingers along my morning wood. I groaned but didn’t speak. Neither did she. But there were smiles and somnolent kisses. And sighs more suited to the tone of the hour than loud cries. She’d crawled on top of me, fitting the length of my cock between her legs, rocking herself over me. It wasn’t fucking, but it was close, and it was beautiful. And all the more for her instigation. And we both came in the end.
‘I think you’ll find,’ she replies quietly, ‘despite your confusing analogy, the correct title is Pygmalion.’
‘Whatever. You’ll always be more than a fair lady to me.’
The meeting starts shortly after. It goes on. And it goes on. And on. And I’m mostly zoned out as Haydn directs a little vitriol in the wrong direction.
‘ . . . but the figures don’t make sense,’ he says, pointing a pencil at Heather. ‘You’re off your game. Distracted. You come in late and you’re clearly not yourself.’
‘We have flexible working hours, Haydn. I’d like you to remember that,’ Heather replies without bite. ‘I’d also like to point out you’re quite welcome to check in with HR if you have any further complaints. Yes, I might be late some days, but most days I leave late, and I work from home.’
She mainly works from my home these days. For dog parenting reasons. It’s just easier, I suppose.
‘Also, you took some documents out of the safe,’ he says, continuing in that supercilious tone of his. ‘Items that are kept under lock and key because they aren’t assets of E11even. They’re just on loan.’
‘What?’ Heather stiffens, her back ramrod straight, and while my instinct is to want to calm her, to protect her, she wouldn’t appreciate my interference right now.
‘The safe. You went in it and you didn’t lock the documents away afterwards.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Haydn. I have nothing to do with the safe.’
‘Hmm.’ He folds his arms across his chest, his lips pursed like a middle-aged shopkeeper. ‘That sounds like something someone would say to keep from being reprimanded.’
‘Oh, yes. That sounds sane. Just like how you seem to think I can magically conjure up the code to the safe. Poof! Out of thin
air. But surely, I’d have to grow a pair of testicles to do that? You know, to perform miracles.’
‘Well. That is. I never—’
As Haydn blusters and people snigger, the door to the meeting room opens, the Fat Controller coming strolling in, like Churchill to Battle of Britain bunker meeting.
‘Good morning,’ he announces, coming to stand behind where Heather and I are sitting. ‘Forgive me for intruding, this is just a flying visit, troops. I have an announcement to make. As I’m sure you’re all aware, Archer Powell has headed up our business to business team for the last few months. I’d like to take a moment to commend him on the outstanding job he’s doing. He’s brought a number of substantial contracts from Europe in particular. It’s with this in mind that I’d like to announce, effective immediately, that Archer will be heading up our association with the Naar Voren Group.’
This is news to me. Not the superstar stuff, but the collaboration. It probably just means more travelling, but it’s another feather in my cap and a step closer to that promised promotion. I’ve sort of zoned out when I realise he’s still talking.
‘In fact, Naar Voren was so impressed with his dedication, that a senior associate from their corporate team has flown from Amsterdam to liaise with him personally. I’d like to introduce to you all Fenna Jansen who will be with us all week.’
He steps back as he introduces this Fenna, and I feel the blood drain from my face.
Older, not younger than me.
Attractive, not pretty like the woman sitting next to me.
Sophisticated, not brash.
Sultry, not sweet.
Tall and not short.
Dark hair. No presence of strawberry.
And judging by her face, still interested in me.
Whatever else is said, I don’t hear a word of it. I feel like I’m stuck in some bad dream. Surely the fact that I turned her down in the hotel doesn’t mean she’s chasing me. Does it?
In a whirl of motion, he shakes her hand, leans down and squeezes my shoulder issuing a whispered instruction to take care of Ms Jansen well. As the pair leave, I try not to notice her lingering look as the door closes behind them, the room breaking out in chatter like a classroom abandoned by its teacher.
She looked confused, didn’t she?
Meanwhile, Heather is refusing to bring her gaze my way.
Well, fuck! I knew I hated Mondays.
31
Heather
The meeting ends and I leave Archer with his crowd of sycophants and gossip mongers, otherwise known as well-wishers. Back slappers. Bum lickers. Yes, it’s a feather in his cap that he’s been given this project to run, and we should perhaps all be pleased for him because NV is a company E11even has been chasing for quite some time. And yet, I find myself slipping out of the door feeling a little hurt.
Maybe Fenna Jensen is the reason he didn’t call me while he was in Amsterdam. His silly cake text is looking less and less cute by the minute. But do I have the right to feel as wounded as I do? Not really. Not with how we left things back then. But that’s the thing about feelings, you don’t really get a choice whether you want them or not.
But I’m not only hurt. I’m annoyed. We’ve spent so much time together over the last few weeks and he didn’t think to mention anything about this to me? I fail to see how he wouldn’t have noticed her. Not the way she was looking at him.
We’re supposed to be in a relationship, aren’t we?
Not the real thing, my mind supplies. Maybe you’re the stand in, not him.
I head in the direction of my office, but then realise he’ll probably head straight there, too. I’m not ready to speak to him yet. I’m not calm enough to get my point across without shouting. Or crying. Maybe both. I’m not quite ready to articulate my hurt.
I bypass the igloo-like meeting pods and the games space, which is unusually empty, wishing I’d stopped long enough to grab my cupcake before stomping my way into the first of the designated thinking spaces. These rooms are so rarely used for anything other than people hiding from work and upper management, but it seems they’re all at their desks now. Which is just as well as I drop to the seat in the little auditorium space that looks like it was made for kindergarteners. Primary colours and fake grass on the semi-circle of seating. At least they’re full-sized, I suppose. This room is for joint thinkers. For practising pitches. For sharing ideas. It’s safe to say no one ever comes in here.
Why didn’t he tell me he was about to be promoted?
And what was with Frankie Lambeth’s fatherly squeeze on his shoulder? Was it a case of; look after her, boy. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. I know it sounds ridiculous. I know it sounds far-fetched, but so does getting to run a project this size considering he’s worked for E11even for under six months.
From the corner of my eye I notice the pile of company magazines next to me. And wouldn’t you know, Archer’s smiling face is staring out. Annoyed by his presence even in this form, I push at the pile though only succeed in increasing the numbers of his smiles.
‘Urgh.’ But then I notice it looks like someone else has suffered annoyance at the sight of him too, taking a black biro to his face. And, oh, look. They’ve even left a pen. How considerate.
I enlarge the specs he’s wearing from regular Archer size to Elton John circa 1970 proportions. Then I deepen his freckles and turn them to craters. I add a blackened tooth, give him a buccaneer style nasty scar, complete with sutures. Then I wish I’d left the specs in favour of an eyepatch.
‘Defiling me, Heather?’ I jump at the sound of his voice, something dark and swift blooming inside of me.
‘I’m just making the outsides match the insides.’
‘For the record,’ he says, coming to stand next to me—no, coming to loom over me. He slides his hands in his pockets, a tiny but condescending smile playing on his face. ‘I don’t think spectacles and a black front tooth detract from my desirability. Not even for you.’
‘You’re a prick,’ I retort, throwing the magazine a little farther away. ‘And I didn’t do that.’
‘Hmm. Except you’re still holding the pen.’ He pulls the magazine back to its original place, flipping it over with his thumb and forefinger as though he has a deep-seated need to examine it. But I’m not silly, I know he’s just trying to crowd me in.
‘I do like the addition of those devilish horns.’
‘I wish I could claim responsibility for those, but I can’t.’
‘Really?’ he drawls.
‘I suppose this must mean you’re torturing someone in the building. Someone other than me.’
‘You know I save all my good moves for you.’
He drops the magazine, pressing his palm flat to the cover, the inside of his wrist almost brushing my thigh with the sort of measured carelessness that has me immediately annoyed. He’s always so supremely confident; does anything ever not go his way?
‘What do you want, Archer?’
‘To talk to you. To explain what went on in the meeting room. I was as shocked as you were.’
‘I’m not sure I was shocked,’ I retort a little nastily.
‘I think you’re wondering who she is and what I have to do with her.’
‘I’m wondering how you got yourself a promotion.’
‘Oh, I suppose I must be shagging my way to the top. Or not quite the top,’ he adds after a little consideration.
‘When I came here, it was on the understanding that I’d be fast-tracked to promotion.’
‘Ha. On the rocket track, more like.’ As I stand from the row of AstroTurf seating, he moves back, allowing me to make my way to the far wall. Something tells me I need to stand for this discussion. Maybe fold my arms.
‘Are you always willing to believe the worst in everyone, or is it just me?’
‘You made out you were hurt I didn’t call after the wedding. Was that true or was it a smokescreen? Fudging the fact to smooth things over?’’
He stalks towards me
with the grace of big cat.
‘Do you know I’ve got a degree in economics from Oxford?’
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’
‘Probably, the amount of student debt I have because of it. I’ve also got a master’s in strategic management.’
‘Is this your idea of sexy?’
‘Intelligence is always sexy, babe.’
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘I will. When you stop being babe. So basically, never. Not even when we’re old and wrinkly and grey.’
His proximity is maddening, the heat and scent of him heady and oh-so tempting. He’s just far too annoying and far too real.
‘Stop. Just stop it.’
‘Not until you tell me exactly what’s bothering you.’
‘Did you fuck her?’ the words are like bullets out of my mouth.
‘Why, Heather,’ he says, pressing his forearm on the wall above my head. ‘Are you jealous?’ My heart beats like a drum as I turn my head to avoid his lips, but his intent was only to graze my cheek anyway. ‘I didn’t,’ he murmurs, ‘but I could have. Does that turn you on?’
It shouldn’t. It doesn’t. He does. His proximity. The fact that his throat is in kissing distance and the intent implied in his stance. You’re mine, it seems to say, and I’ll do to you what I like because I know you’ll like it, too.
And it’s true. Because I’ve dreamed about just this before he’d even ever kissed me.
‘I’m hurt that you’d rather believe the worst of me.’
‘Why? Aren’t you supposed to be our resident bad boy?’
‘Heather.’ The way he says my name is like an admonishment. ‘Stop. I’m not him. I would never hurt you.’
I freeze, everything in me turning to ice.
‘Don’t let that night define your life. You’re so much stronger than that. I know you see me for who I really am. You see me.’
There’s such vehemence in his words. Such intensity. And I want to believe him, I really do. And when I think of all he is to me, all he’s done for me, I know he’s speaking the truth. Archer Powell is irritating and annoying and a whole lot of other things, but he’s also good.