The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ I reply with a sigh, turning to meet his brilliant blue eyes. I don’t have to allow my life to be defined by one experience. And I am strong, and I’m stronger for knowing him. ‘But you see,’ I add a little softer, ‘the damage is done. Because as well as defiling the company image of you, I’ve also got a little poppet in my desk.’

  That atmosphere changes, the intensity in his eyes no less, but the tiny sun licked lines around them relaxing. ‘Have you been sticking pins in me?’

  ‘It’s only fair. You get to stick things in me.’

  His smile is like the sun breaking out from behind threatening clouds. ‘It makes sense now. You’ve been using your voodoo effigy to make me do your bidding.’

  ‘I said poppet,’ I return with a pout. ‘It sounds much less menacing.’

  ‘But you are a menace. An effigy. Poppet. Doll. They’re all the same. All ways you’ve woven your magic around me.’ He leans closer, his arm still pressed above my head, heat just radiating from him.

  ‘I prefer poppet,’ I answer, my voice not entirely steady. It’s like every one of my nerve endings is a light, and the air around us electrified.

  ‘Me too,’ he murmurs, his eyes dropping to the V of my blouse. ‘Poppet and . . . pop-it.’ He opens the top two buttons in such a smooth move that my heart begins to hammer in time with the beat of blood rushing though my veins.

  My last coherent though is, I want him, as he tilts his head and slants his mouth over mine. His kiss is his promise, the stroke of his tongue his pledge, and when I return the motion with the brush of my own, the deep hum of appreciation sears my need.

  I want him.

  Right here, right now.

  Decorum be damned.

  My hand on his belt, my fingers curling around his hard length. His hissed curse. More buttons popping, his hand on my breast, his mouth; my back arching to meet him.

  The sound of his whispered ‘Hush’ and his wicked smile as he presses his hand over my mouth.

  His fingers bunching up my skirt, his long fingers slipping my knickers aside.

  ‘Fuck me.’ If I had words, I’d probably invite him to. If I had the power of speech, I’d definitely agree as my body invites the brush of them.

  His fingers swipe through my wetness, my eyes rolling back in my head as he pinches my slippery clit, already swollen and aching. Pinches. Pets. Rubs maddening circles over it.

  ‘I want nothing more than to make you happy,’ he whispers, pressing the words into my neck. And as he slides his fingers deep inside, I struggle to stay upright.

  All that’s missing is his promise of forever.

  ‘Come for me, Heather,’ he commands, curling those fingers inside, beckoning me. ‘Come for me.’

  If I can’t have forever, this will have to do.

  32

  Heather

  ‘That didn’t take you long. I thought I told you to take the key . . .’ My words drain away, and my smile with them as I pull open my front door fully expecting to find Archer standing in front of me.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ Miranda replies sardonically. ‘It looks like I’ve properly pissed on your parade.’ She pushes past me like someone who is as familiar with my flat as I am. That might not be true, but she and I don’t stand on ceremony. We’re family; she’s as welcome here as I am at her home. That said, I’m pleased she doesn’t have a key today. If she’d turned up half an hour before, she’d be seeing a lot more of me than she’d bargained for. ‘Who were you expecting?’

  ‘What? Oh, just a friend.’ Talk about being cagey but this is a conversation I’ve yet to have with Mir. It’s a conversation I’ve been trying to avoid completely, if I’m honest, especially after the way Vivi had taken the news of my plans. ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘Thomas has started to play rugby Saturday mornings. Father-son bonding, I think they call it.’

  ‘Rugby? Isn’t it dangerous? Isn’t he too little?’ Thomas is a sweet boy, not the rough and tumble type.

  ‘All questions I’ve asked,’ she says, holding up a forestalling hand, ‘and more. Questions I’m assured are bonkers. Besides, it’s non-contact rugby. They play for tags or something.’

  Mir drops into a claret coloured wing back chair near the cast iron Victorian fireplace. The chair was Jammy’s favourite, hence the threadbare arms. In fact, most of my furniture was inherited from her when she left me this beautiful flat. True, it’s more comfy and cosy than hip and stylish like Archer’s place. But the building has history and masses of what I suppose an estate agent would call street appeal. It’s all sash windows and dramatic Gothic splendour, the type of building that Victorian’s seemed to be very fond of. It must have been a magnificent home originally, but the guts of the building had been carved up many years ago.

  ‘You’re getting dressed early,’ she says, her gaze dropping to my pirate’s outfit. Or maybe just the ripped stockings and the bits of red and white stripy fabric tied around my wrists. I pull down the sleeves of my long cardigan and wrap it around me a little tighter while hoping she doesn’t notice the hat lying on the sideboard at the other side of the room.

  And yes, I’m working this afternoon, but that’s not the reason I’m dressed as I am.

  ‘That belt isn’t part of the original outfit, is it?’ Her eyes drop to my midriff where inattention and a lack of buttons have allowed my long cardigan to gape. ‘Is that a corset? And are you wearing stockings?’

  ‘The old belt was just a bit of felt. It didn’t last very long before it fell to bits. And the stockings are something of an experiment. Granted, they don’t look very nice. But pirates aren’t supposed to be nice.’ And neither are saucy wenches.

  I can’t believe I giggled when he called me that.

  ‘You should’ve said. We could have ordered you something else, rather than replacing it with something that will make all the dads sit up and beg.’

  She looks confused. And so she should be because there’s no way I’ll be wearing this three hundred quid Agent Provocateur beauty where there’ll be sticky fingers. Unless they belong to Archer; he did buy it for me after all. Just the thought of him shopping for me, thinking about me, without even asking for my size sort of blows my mind. It also makes my stomach flip—yes, even under all this satin and boning.

  I resist the urge to run my hands over my hips, the sensuousness of it calling to me. I can’t believe how much shape it’s given me. I’ve got hips and tits! I also can’t believe Archer would buy me something so exquisite when I feel like it should be me buying him a gift. You can’t buy a man I’m sorry boxer shorts though, can you? Because I am sorry. Sorry for so many things, like jumping to conclusions and making him feel terrible. For making him chase me down in the office on Monday. Because the woman from Amsterdam was only in the office for the day, and she kind of avoided him like the plague.

  Sure, I know he’ll be spending time in Amsterdam over the coming months but I can’t think about that now. Besides, when the time comes, he won’t be mine to worry about. So not thinking about that now. Deny. Ignore. Even if I feel a little manic.

  But I can’t believe he spent this much money on me, though I only know how much because I took a peek at the website the minute he slipped out the door. And then I saw an email which I shied away from opening. An email that’s making me feel sick with anxiety.

  ‘What the heck is that?’

  I twist, glancing behind me thinking she’s spotted the Tricorn hat. Physically wincing as I see my laptop. But she’s not asking about either of those things.

  ‘That’s Elvis.’ Who has yet to stir from his position curled in the corner of the sofa, despite Miranda banging on the front door. He’s not much of a guard dog. More like a large cushion.

  ‘You got a dog? No,’ she adds in an accusing tone. ‘Now the boys are going start harping on and on about getting one again.’

  ‘And you should totally get them one,’ I say, because parental guilt on Miranda might
not be a good look but it is fun. ‘Dogs are wonderful.’ Apart from all the bum sniffing and having to collect their poop. ‘A dog would teach them about unconditional love and the importance of responsibility.’

  ‘For about a week until the novelty wears off and I’m left clearing up after it. Where on earth did you get it, anyway? It’s a bit big for this place?’

  ‘No, he isn’t. And he isn’t an it. Elvis, it so happens, doesn’t belong to me. He’s the pet of a friend.’

  ‘A friend. What friend?’ I sort of shrug. ‘A friend in need is a pain in the arse, especially if they’ve left you looking after their dog. Anyway.’ She adds, seeming to shake off all thoughts of dogs. ‘You haven’t asked me if I want a cuppa yet.’

  ‘Because I don’t have time. I’ve got work to do, and clearly, I’m not yet dressed.’ I add one of Archer’s full body gameshow flourishes, though without the muscle popping he does so well.

  ‘It’s about work I want to speak to you about.’

  ‘What about it?’ I ask warily, well aware of the fact I’ve been slacking off lately. Daisy has picked up so many of my shifts but that’s because I feel like I’m running out of time to be with him. At the end of each day, I count one less from my total. And I know that sounds ridiculous because all we ever had was temporary from the start. But it doesn’t feel good when he leaves, and I know he’s coming back. When we part that final time, and everything shifts? I can’t imagine it.

  So I won’t.

  And I don’t make a fuss or second guess his thoughts or feelings and I no longer worry about his motives. But I do know Archer didn’t sign up for this, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

  ‘I say this with love,’ Mir begins, which doesn’t sound like a great start, ‘but Heather, you’re a mess. You can’t go to a six-year-olds birthday party dressed like that. Again, I say this with much love, but you look slatternly and more like you’re half undressed.’

  ‘I wasn’t going anywhere dressed like this!’ Except to the bedroom. ‘And I told you, the stockings were an experiment.’ Sort of. Because Archer had tried to shred them with his fingers. While I giggled. Bent over the back of the chair.

  ‘Look, I—’ Miranda leans forward in the chair, her expression quizzical as she slides her hand behind her back, pulling out a feather on a stick. A feather on a stick from Frambrough Castle. At least that’s all she found . . .

  ‘It’s a dog toy,’ I say, pulling it out of her hand.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like any dog toy I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Do you have a pet dog? No. Well, there you go.’

  ‘What is going on with you?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Right, well.’ She eyes me warily like she wants to believe me but isn’t quite sure. ‘No pressure but I wanted to ask if you’d like to take over the running of Little Red.’

  ‘Are you going on holiday?’ I usually look after things when she does, but she usually gives me lots of notice.

  ‘No. I’m diversifying. I’m getting more and more interest from potential clients looking for corporate event planning. But I need someone to take over the kids’ side of things.’

  ‘Full time?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But . . . I’ve got a job.’

  ‘A job you hate. And you’re as much a part of this company as I am. Come on, Heth, Little Red was named for you.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, it was! What did you think I named it after?’

  ‘It could’ve been anything, couldn’t it? Little red hen? Little red caboose? All kind of childish things.’

  ‘But those things don’t mean anything to me. From the time you caught me smoking as a teenager and didn’t tell, and even when your hair was pink, you’ve always been my little red, Heather Feather.’

  ‘Why would you want to give it up?’ She’s not short on cash. Not with Harry by her side.

  ‘The boys are getting older. They need me a little less, and I need something other than dealing with other mothers. I get enough of them at the school gates. Playdates. Shit like that. Come on, take the sodding company off my hands. I’ll even give you shares.’

  I find myself sinking to the coffee table, my mind a mess. Why me? I’m only just learning to function properly. ‘You think I could do this?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve done it before. You can carry on running the parties yourself, but not in those stockings, but I’d recommend hiring some new blood. Maybe introduce some new hosts, and I’d go with Disney-esque princesses. You could hire some theatre students on the cheap. Better still if they can sing.’

  ‘Mir, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘What do you want to say? What does your gut say?’

  ‘My gut says it can’t believe you’d have this much faith in me.’

  ‘The only person who doesn’t have faith in you is you. The rest of us know you’re amazing. And capable. And when you need to be, when you’re all in, you’re unstoppable.’

  Bursting into tears might not be the best response but it’s the one she gets.

  ‘Heth. You don’t have to take it,’ she says, coming to sit on the coffee table next to me and slinging her arm across my back. ‘This table will hold both our weights, right?’

  ‘Yeah, it was Jammy’s. Everything she bought was built to last.’

  ‘I suppose all the good things are. Families. Relationships. Business. I wouldn’t dream of handing over Little Red to anyone else, you know.’

  ‘What are you going to do if I say no?’ I prop my head on her shoulder so she can’t see my face.

  ‘Tickle you until you submit, I suppose. You’re not really going to say no to getting out of that place, are you? Escape the office politics and gossips?’

  ‘It’s been better lately.’ Because of a certain blue-eyed man. ‘But no, I’m not going to say no.’ I’m going to say the opposite. Yes!’

  Miranda squeals with delight as she squeezes me manically. ‘I’m so happy for us both!’

  Me too, I think, as I wipe at my snivelling with my cardigan sleeves.

  ‘Hey, what happened to that Benji bloke. The one with the snotty nose?’

  With comic timing, (so why aren’t I laughing?) the room to the living room opens as Archer busts in. ‘Honey, I’m home! And I got a mega box of dick socks, so don’t expect to wear knickers this weekend!’ He launches the box across the room, Mir catching this.

  Elvis barks and thumps down onto the floor, making Miranda jump. ‘I forgot he was there,’ she says, her hand pressed to her chest. Then her head tilts with the air of an inquisitive terrier. ‘Greensleeves?’

  I shake my head rapidly, grabbing the large box of condoms from her hand, throwing them to the spot recently vacated on the sofa.

  ‘Why do I feel the need for a cocktail date coming up? And the other kind of debrief.’

  As if my cheeks weren’t red enough.

  ‘Mir.’ I hold out my hands, sort of, behold the manly specimen before you. ‘This is Archer. From work.’

  ‘Oh.’ So much meaning in that little sound. So much understanding. ‘Well, I can see why work has improved,’ she says as she stands. ‘So it was a good wedding, was it?’

  ‘I told you,’ I mutter as we both stand, ‘it wasn’t like that.’ It was better. Better than she could ever imagine.

  ‘Archer.’ I suppose I’d best get on with the awkward introductions. ‘This is my cousin, Miranda.’

  ‘Oh, Miranda the cousin?’ Now he’s doing the terrier thing, too.

  ‘I hope that’s not my reputation preceding me,’ she grumbles good-naturedly.

  ‘I’ve heard only good things,’ he says, stepping into the room as he shoos Elvis to one side, proffering his hand.

  ‘Now I know you’re lying.’ She grins cheekily. ‘Well, I’m going to leave you two . . . to it, I suppose. She bends to pick up her huge purse from the floor next to Jammy’s chair.

  ‘Yeah, good idea. I’ve got to go to work soon.’
r />   ‘Don’t labour too hard now, will you?’ Pulling the door open, she steps through it and pokes out her tongue, quickly closing it behind her.

  ‘She seems lovely,’ Archer says, slipping off his jacket.

  ‘She is. She’s the best.’ He barely has time to drop it to Jammy’s chair as I launch myself into his arms, my heart beating so hard it hurts.

  You’re the best, that muscle seems to say. And I don’t deserve you.

  Not when I’m lying to myself.

  Not when I’m ignoring an email from Barney.

  Not when we’re on borrowed time.

  33

  Heather

  I lie to Archer for the first time that night. Well, discounting the lie I told him in the first place. The lie about my boyfriend.

  Tonight’s lie was a lie of omission.

  I hid the truth that we only have days left.

  We’d made plans to watch a movie at his after my Sunday party duties, but I sent him a text that said I was done in. To tired to function. Unfit for anything but my bed. Alone. To make it worse, he didn’t make a fuss. He accepted it with good grace, despite the fact that we’ve spent pretty much every minute together for weeks.

  He said to get some rest. That he understood. That I’d had a big day. That the excitement of becoming a business owner was probably the cause of my aching head.

  Too much thinking, babe.

  He blew me a kiss down the line and said he’d call me later to check in.

  So I went home, showered, crawled into bed, and watched dusk crawl across my bedroom walls. As day gave in to the pull of evening, I gave into my tears.

  I cried for what might’ve been. I cried for getting myself into this mess. I cried for not having the courage to ask Archer to reconsider our terms. The sane part of my brain tells me the deadline I’ve given myself doesn’t have to mean anything. I can tell Barney thank but no thanks, but what then? How long before Archer begins to get itchy feet? How long before he gets tired of my attitude and quirks? How long before he gives up trying to fix me?