by Amy McLean
"It's a penis!" screamed Julie, who seemed to have woken up from her nap at the perfect moment.
"She's right! It is a penis!" Laura continued to clap, her energy ceaseless.
"But it doesn't even look—"
"Oh, come off it, Grace. Stop being such a prude! It's just a bit of fun," remarked Harriet, who leapt to her feet, suddenly enjoying herself.
Caroline grabbed the balloon and held onto it between her legs. She positioned her other hand behind her head and began thrusting her hips back and forth. Her audience erupted in laughter.
"You're so good at that!" Laura squeaked.
Nicola was too busy blowing up a rounded balloon to watch Caroline, and Megan was drawing a nipple onto another balloon with a marker pen. But Grace could see this display perfectly well, and how deeply she wished she couldn't. She just didn't understand it. And where had the wine disappeared to? Her glass was looking sorely empty.
"What are we, ladies?"
Julie burped.
"That's not quite what I was going for, but thank you, Julie!"
"What are we then, Caroline? Tell us, tell us!"
Grace started to wonder whether it was just the endless supply of shots that was making Laura behave like an idiot, or if it was actually the way she always acted. She hoped, for Laura's sake, that it was the former as she watched her jump up and down enthusiastically with no detriment to the flat chest she concealed behind the cartoon mouth that stretched across the petite front of her t-shirt.
"I'll tell you!" Caroline continued. "We, my good friends, are modern women!"
More cheers came from the crowd.
"And do you know why we're modern women?"
"Why are we modern women, Caroline?" It was Laura again, who, Grace was convinced, had started to believe she was attending a pantomime.
"Because none of us let men tell us what to do! They don't get to boss us around. We don't have to behave like we were put on this earth to do their dirty work! We get to have complete control of our own lives and our own money," she continued thrusting with the balloon, "and you know what the best part is?"
"What?"
"We don't have anything hideous dangling between our legs!"
Grace thought Laura was going to wet herself as she proceeded to roll around on the floor in hysterics. It was definitely time to find the wine.
"Here, let me have a go!" shouted Harriet across the noise, gesturing for Caroline to pass the balloon.
Grace stood up and steadied herself on her feet before thinking about approaching the kitchen to find another bottle.
Just as Caroline launched the object into the air, Grace took a step forward. The phallic balloon skimmed the top of Grace's head as it flew toward Harriet. There was nothing Grace could do but ignore the scene behind her as the balloon began making its way around the room.
As she stood in the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and gulped it down. She was hot, dehydrated, and struggling to keep her headache at bay. Her mind was throbbing as she tried to push away the thoughts.
It was no use. Neither silk nightgowns nor adult bunnies were ever going to be enough of a distraction to hold her attention. And she couldn't stop thinking about that letter.
When she'd awoken on the morning of the lingerie party, the autumnal sun had bled through the gap in the curtains, forcing her awake. She'd pulled herself up until she was propped against the pillows, rubbing her head. She'd had the most peculiar dream.
At least, that's what she'd thought it had been.
It was only when she rolled over to check the time, remembering she had a lot to do that day before she and Harriet were due to arrive at Caroline's, that she saw it lying on the bedside table.
The letter was still folded so that her name on the front was facing toward the ceiling. Grace rubbed furiously at her eyes, wishing it to go away. But it was still there when she opened them again. She reached out a trembling hand from under the warmth of the blanket and picked it up. It was just as she remembered it.
Grace did not understand how the letter had made its way into her bedroom. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember how she'd gotten into bed. The last thing she could recall was crossing through the door and hearing it bang behind her. She'd been certain it was a dream once she'd woken.
But even if the letter wasn't enough to convince her otherwise, then the metal key sticking out of the door at the top of the landing would have been enough to change her mind. It baffled her to think that she'd never paid any attention to that cupboard before, and that she hadn't even registered that it was there. But as clear as day, she could now see it. Its presence was undeniable. She hadn't been dreaming.
She'd tried to open in again. She needed to see what was on the other side now that it was broad daylight.
She fought but it wouldn't budge. She'd turned the key both ways, jiggled it about in the lock. It was stuck. It was as if somebody, or something, was refusing to allow her to cross back through to wherever it was she'd been the night before.
They certainly wanted her to remember it though. Why else would the letter have mysteriously made its way to her night stand after she'd dropped it in the ship? But the unusual clothes she'd been wearing—the tan bodice and the copper skirt—were nowhere to be seen. She was once again wearing her pink pyjamas with the little clouds. The words inside the letter were her only hope if she was ever going to find out what had happened.
But she didn't read it. It wasn't the case that she didn't want to read it. It was just the case that every time she tried to take a moment to sit down and decipher it, something got in the way. When Harriet came up the stairs she'd stuffed the letter away out of sight, as she knew she couldn't risk anybody else finding out about it. And when Harriet walked straight past the door without acknowledging it, it didn't help to reassure Grace that she wasn't just going crazy. She was starting to fear what she didn't understand. Perhaps it would be best if she forgot all about the door and the letter and the ship.
Perhaps if she ignored everything, then maybe it would all go away.
It turned out she was wrong. Her method had lasted until the gathering that evening, but she had to admit the fact that it could be ignored no more. As Caroline entered the kitchen clutching a nurse's outfit made of PVC that she was most definitely going to squeeze into, Grace confirmed to herself that, no matter what happened, she would read that letter tomorrow and find out exactly what was going on. It was the only way her mind would ever be able to rest.
She gulped down another mouthful of water and shuffled her way back into the living room, just in time to see Julie lift up her top and wedge the balloon between her breasts. Maybe the letter wasn't so bad a distraction after all.
6
Fran picked at the top of the muffin, flicking the bits of blueberry mindlessly. So far, her morning hadn't been great. The drain in her flat had decided to clog, the fuse had blown on her hair dryer, and just because things always seemed to happen in threes, she'd broken one of her nails when she opened her car door on the way to work. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't just had them manicured. Not even a freshly-baked muffin from the coffee shop down the street was working to cheer her up.
She scrolled through her emails, looking for something to occupy her mind. There were a few messages Grace had forwarded to her, but nothing exciting.
What was Grace's problem, anyway? If Fran decided to walk around in outfits she'd clearly had for what must be at least a decade, she'd probably wish for the ground to swallow her whole. And whatever she did to her hair in the mornings—scraping it back like that—did absolutely nothing to frame her face. She needed layers or something, anything to make her look less plain.
Yes, Fran was most certainly pleased she did not look like Grace.
But Grace didn't have to spend every single day of her life giving in to Mr Barrie's demands, did she? Grace wasn't the one who was expected to bring his coffee every morning. Grace didn't have to pretend to be grateful
for the expensive jewellery he threw her way when really he was bestowing bribes. And it wasn't Grace who had to unfasten the button on his trousers with her teeth when everybody else had left the office to go home. It wasn't Grace's job on the line if she refused to give Mr Barrie exactly what he wanted, was it?
No, she didn't have to deal with any of that.
"You're still working on that article about winter footwear, Fran?" Mr Barrie crept up behind her, breaking her concentration
"I've just finished it," she replied, not turning to look at him.
If she had to find the silver lining for her situation, it would be the fact that as long as she concentrated all her energy on giving her boss whatever it was he wanted, she wouldn't have the time to worry about how the rest of her life outside of the office seemed to be spiralling out of her control.
Mr Barrie interrupted her thoughts again. She needed to stop making a habit of drifting off. "I want you to head into town and take a look at the latest bags or accessories or whatever it is you women like to throw yourselves all over this time of year. It's party season, so women are going to need to know what to wear with their little black dresses." He leaned closer to Fran. "There's some money in the top drawer in my office. Pick up something pretty for yourself—maybe go for something that'll accentuate that neckline of yours a little more?" He glanced down, not hiding the fact that he was looking straight down her blouse.
Spending a little time looking around the shops would lift her mood a little—she couldn't deny that—but she wished it was something she could do without having to rely on Mr Barrie's bribery. Giving in to what he desired, she pressed her palms into her back to stretch before standing up and leaning her chest in his direction. Apparently he didn't seem to care that he made her do this right in the middle of the office where everybody could see her. She tried to pretend she didn't care what the others thought, but sometimes she felt like she'd lost all self-respect. But if she wanted to continue to be able to pay her bills and keep a roof over her head, especially now that she was struggling with her imminent divorce, then maybe this was just something she was going to have to live with. With no other alternative in sight, she swallowed her pride and headed for Mr Barrie's office to collect the money.
Mr Barrie scratched at his moustache before turning to face James, who was busy tapping away at his keyboard. "Anything interesting in the news?" He had, of course, read the morning newspapers himself, but he liked to test his employees and put them on the spot. He always gave James half an hour after the daily meeting to go through the newspapers—a generous amount of time as far as Mr Barrie was concerned—before he'd check up on him to make sure that the newest member of his staff was living up to his high standards. Thankfully for James, he always did as he was told.
"Nothing much, sir: another stabbing, gang crime, break-ins. But I still have to go through some of the news sites to see if there's anything breaking. Maybe there's been a murder!"
James had a peculiar appetite for news stories: the more blood and guts, the better. It wasn't that he was malicious, and deep down he hoped that nobody had been murdered, but whenever it did happen he tried to think of it like a fictitious story. As long as he maintained the attitude that he was writing a book report for some gripping crime novel, then his emotions wouldn't be affected by the horrors that he had to report on every single day.
"I want you to make some phone calls," Mr Barrie continued, "to see if you can interview somebody involved in anything that's going on. We really need to improve the daily hits on the website...
And Andy," he said, turning in his direction, "you didn't tell me earlier about the match..."
Mr Barrie didn't know the first thing about football, but he certainly liked to pretend that he was interested. Was it not, after all, his duty as a man to love and be devoted to the sport? The last thing he wanted to do was to give the impression that he was soft.
"It was brilliant!" Andy replied. "Both sides played with a lot of energy and enthusiasm. I reckon some of them are going to be fantastic players when they're older."
"Have you put the article online yet?" Andy nodded. "Good. And as I told you earlier, I want you to focus on rugby today. I want who's hot, who's not. A report on the league tables, that sort of thing."
Nobody dared to point out that he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. It wasn't worth the risk to bruise his ego; the consequences for the entire Anchor team would be dire. Grace looked up at Mr Barrie as she fought a never-ending battle with boredom.
"And Grace," he said, "you just carry on doing whatever it is you're doing."
Grace often wondered if Mr Barrie actually knew what he had employed her to do. She may have hated her job, but she respected the fact that, without her there to answer the emails and take phone calls, Mr Barrie would not receive any of the correspondence he needed to sustain the business. And without her there to forward emails to people, nobody would have access to half the stories they produced. She couldn't help but feel undermined.
She slumped lower on her chair. It wasn't even ten o'clock and already she was feeling lethargic. Something told her it was going to be a long day.
With nothing else to do, she pulled up the emails, hoping there would be something there to keep her mind active for a few minutes. There was one new email. She clicked it open and sighed. She should have known it would be for Fran. She sent it on to Fran's account, knowing all too well that she would love this; she always seemed to enjoy receiving something for nothing, and now Fran was being invited to yet another product launch. She always returned to the office from such events with an entire goody-bag full of new products to review for the website.
No matter how much she disliked Fran though, she had to admit that she was brilliant at networking. If it wasn't for the fact that Mr Barrie kept buttering her up all the time, she probably would have gone elsewhere by now. Grace was certain that Fran was only staying at Anchor because she liked to be flattered by her boss.
Grace tapped in a reply to the sender to inform them that the email had been forwarded to the relevant recipient and that they should expect a response in due course. She didn't need to think about what she was writing, having responded with the exact same message more times than she cared to consider. She sent the email and glanced over to Fran's desk. She watched as she quickly jotted something down in her notebook before standing and putting on her coat. Without looking around the office, she headed straight for the door with what Grace took to be a grin spread across her face.
She looked up at the clock. Five minutes had crawled by since she had last checked the time. She half expected the big hand to start moving backwards soon. Still another six hours and fifty-five minutes until she could go home. No emails to reply to, no queries to answer. What a brilliant start to the week...
There was one positive thing about having nothing else to do though. Glancing around the office, she made sure nobody was watching her. Thankfully everybody was too busy working on their articles to notice her, and Andy, who often wandered over to speak to her, was chewing the end of his pen with his eyes glued to the computer screen, and it didn't look like he'd be moving any time soon. Satisfied that nobody was paying her any attention, she reached under her desk and pulled up her handbag. Unfastening the top, she felt around inside for the pocket at the back.
It was still there.
She held the letter in her hands and read her name on the front: Miss Grace Byrne.
She inhaled deeply, preparing herself for the one thing she'd been putting off all weekend. It was time to read the letter.
Dear Miss Byrne,
I made the decision to leave this letter inside one of my boots as I knew you would be requiring them. I hope they fit you reasonably well. I expect you have a lot of questions you would like to ask me. However, I am afraid that I am unable to answer them for you at this moment. The answers to your questions are something that you must, and will, discover for yourself as you travel through you
r journey. I ask only that you trust your instincts. I know you will do the right thing. And remember, a walk in my boots will help you see that there isn't anything you can't be.
Your friend,
Gráinne
If Grace had expected that reading the letter would help to clear her mind, she had been wrong. It was written in dark ink, the words formed from the tip of a quill. Some of the letters were difficult to read, but she had managed to make her way down the scroll until she reached the end.
Gráinne? She didn't know anybody by that name. There had once been a Gráinne living on her street when she was a child, but that didn't seem to be a likely connection. She scanned the letter again.
"A walk in my boots will help you see," she whispered under her breath so that nobody could hear her muttering the words to herself, "that there isn't anything you can't be."
What was that supposed to mean? Grace was no longer thinking about how the letter had come into her possession; it was more important now that she concentrated on whatever it was the letter was trying to tell her.
It had to be some sort of a riddle. She thought about how she'd found the note inside the pair of boots on the ship. Boots which she had now learned belonged to somebody named Gráinne.
Grace had often heard about weird mystery trails around the world. Not the fun kind like hunting for Easter eggs in the garden, but scavenger hunts conducted by anonymous communities online. It wasn't territory she particularly wished to involve herself in as she knew how nasty it could get, but there was a possibility that somebody on the Internet had concocted this riddle. It wouldn't help her understand how she'd apparently managed to be transported back a few centuries, but maybe it would at least help her solve the problem that lay directly in front of her.
She typed in the words into a search bar and hit the enter key. The screen flashed as it brought up pages of results. After a few seconds though, Grace realised that none of them seemed to be what she was looking for. They were all concerned with selling self-help books or offering cheap hiking trips up and down the country. There were no matches for the words of the letter.