by Mandy Lee
‘Fucking gorgeous.’
‘Married?’
‘No ring.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘A womaniser, according to the receptionist downstairs.’
‘Rich?’
‘Probably. He owns the company.’
‘Sexy?’
‘Eminently.’
‘Get stuck in.’
‘What? No. He’s horrible.’ And while I try my best to pull an I’m-completely-disgusted-by-this-bastard type of face, my body temperature seems to soar by a few degrees and out of nowhere there’s a strange quivering sensation between my thighs. ‘He summoned me up to a meeting today for absolutely no reason. And then he put me on the spot and made me look like a twat. And then he kept me behind and told me he could see my underwear.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Lucy squeals. ‘I told you! A rich businessman on the prowl.’
‘I don’t care if he is on the prowl. He’s horrible.’
‘Mmmm …’ Lucy’s eyes have glazed over now. She takes a huge gulp of wine. ‘So Mr Foster’s all mean and hot and moody. And maybe you’ll be the one to tame him.’
‘And maybe you’re talking shit.’
Lucy shrugs her shoulders, leaves the table and goes back to tending the so-called chilli. She really does read far too many romances. But then again, I’ve started digging into her collection in recent months. And that reminds me: before the night’s out, I need to find a good book to get me through tomorrow.
‘It’s not what I thought it would be, Lucy. I think I might jack it in.’
‘And then go back to painting?’
‘No.’ I stop her in her tracks. ‘Don’t go on about that again.’
I turn the wine glass around in front of me, admiring the way the evening sunlight fragments itself against the glass, spilling little shafts of light across the table.
‘It’s about time,’ Lucy grumbles.
I know she’s right. It’s been five years since I last picked up a brush. Somewhere along the way I lost my confidence, my inspiration, everything. And more than anything, I want it back.
‘I’m not ready.’ I tap the table, wondering exactly when I will be ready.
‘You know, you’re not going to just wake up one day and feel like it. You’ve got to get started, whatever you feel like. You’ve just got to get on with it.’
I nod slowly. She’s right again. I should just get on with it. But then again, she doesn’t realise how deep this goes. She has no idea about my all-consuming fear that somewhere along the way I’ve lost my talent. And without my talent, I’m nothing. At least, if I keep on putting off the moment I start to paint again, I’ll never have to find out.
‘I could go for another secretarial job,’ I suggest.
‘You’re wasting yourself.’
‘It’ll do for now. Until … you know …’
I stare at Lucy and she stares back at me. Eventually, her head bobs to one side.
‘There it is again,’ she whispers. She’s up on her feet in a flash, scurrying over to the window and pulling back the net curtains. ‘He’s back.’
‘Who?’
‘Motorbike man.’
I join Lucy by the window. There, outside our ground-floor flat but on the opposite side of the street, is a man on a motorbike. He’s clad in black leathers. He has his helmet on, the visor down, but there’s no doubt about it. He’s staring back at us.
‘Who is he?’ Lucy breathes. ‘And what the fuck is he doing?’
‘Just close the curtains. He’ll go away.’
‘I’m going out there. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.’
‘No! Luce!’
Before I can stop her she’s out of the front door, flying down the road in her tiny dress, with her boobs wobbling about all over the place.
‘Oi! You!’ she shrieks. ‘Motorbike creep!’
The motorbike revs into life and roars away into the evening.
Chapter Five
I wake early the next morning, haul myself out of bed and stand by the open window, gazing out at the gardens of Mornington Place. Heat has wrapped itself around the city, closing itself tight against every single building, every single street, every single living being. I glance up at the sky and wonder when it’s all going to break. The morning is a blur. I’ve hardly slept and I’m too tired to think straight. Under Lucy’s supervision, I’m squeezed into a fresh set of work clothes that seem just as tight as yesterday’s outfit, and ordered to put on at least a slither of eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara. I comply, just to keep her quiet.
I’m silent on the walk through Camden and I’m silent on the tube. While Lucy reads yet another celebrity magazine, I stare out of the window, watching as one station after another slides its way in and out of my consciousness. I say goodbye to Lucy at Tottenham Court Road, remembering just in time to eject myself from the carriage at Waterloo where I lose myself in the crowds. I don’t know how I get there, but by some miracle I find the Jubilee line. I’m on the platform, hovering by the safety line and sensing the crackle in the air that signals the arrival of the next train when I hesitate, almost swivelling around on my heels and returning to the flat. I don’t know what makes me change my mind. I don’t know what takes me by the hand and guides me onto the next train. Whatever it is, it takes me down to London Bridge and straight back to the imposing tower on the south bank.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back in Norman’s strange department. While Jodie opens up her computer and updates her Facebook status at least twenty times, I make endless cups of tea for Norman and help him tidy his office, which consists mainly of moving the exercise bike from one side of the room to the other, and then back again. When I offer to sort through the piles of paperwork on his desk, I’m told to leave well alone. He knows where everything is, and that’s enough. Finally, Norman busies himself with reading the paper.
‘Can you close the door on your way out, my darling?’ he mutters, fumbling his way through the massive pages of the Daily Telegraph. ‘I need to focus on the business section.’
By ten o’clock, I’ve typed and re-typed my resignation letter at least five times but I just can’t seem to find the right words. I know I’m pretty lucky to be paid for doing almost absolutely nothing, but there are several really good reasons to get out of here. Number one: I feel guilty being paid for doing almost absolutely nothing. Number two: I’m bored. And number three: I really don’t understand that man upstairs and I don’t ever want to run into him again … ever. Just thinking about him makes my pulse quicken and my heartbeat accelerate, and a twinge of desire flare into life between my thighs. But while my body seems to love him, my brain detests the man. I push the keyboard away, reminding myself that the rent needs to be paid. Maybe I should just keep my head down and do as I’m told. After all, if I’m careful, I should be able to minimise contact with him. I blow out a breath and wonder where Jodie’s got to. She left the office almost an hour ago, under orders from Norman to replenish the teabag supply, and there’s been no sign of her since.
Absent-mindedly, I pull a large blank notepad towards myself and begin to doodle. I start with the outline of a face and barely know who it belongs to. Out of nowhere, features begin to appear, and I’m hardly aware of them. Eyes, ears, nose, a mouth. I begin to shade, to add detail, including a mop of hair, and before long the doodle has developed into a full-blown sketch. I know who it is now, and I have no idea why I’m drawing him, but I’m determined to finish it off. I move on to the finer details, adding more definition to the lips, wondering idly what they’d feel like against my body. I shade the hair a little more, imagining that I’m running my fingers through his tumbling locks. I strengthen the jaw and shade the firm cheek bones. And finally, I return to the eyes. There’s something not quite right about them. They’re too vulnerable. I’ve got it all wrong.
‘That really is quite a remarkable likeness.’
A rich, velvety voice shakes me out of my dream world. Caught in
the act, I slap my hand over the sketch and look back over my shoulder only to find him standing directly behind me. How did he do that? How did he get into the office without me hearing the door? And how long has he been standing there? I notice that he’s wearing an expensive black jacket and that his hands are thrust into his trouser pockets. My eyes travel up his chest, growing wider at what they see. Behind that crisp white shirt, there’s clearly a perfect six pack. I catch my breath and look up further, past the loosened black tie, pausing at his neck, noting that the top button is undone. I wonder momentarily what it would feel like to run my lips across that skin. Finally, I take a breath and raise my eyes to his face. He’s smiling at me with those steely blue eyes, only now they don’t seem to be steely at all. They’re softer somehow, and they’re twinkling. I watch as the eyes move from the picture and fix themselves on my own face. A spark of electricity kicks off in my stomach, flinging itself about my body like the Tazmanian Devil. Suddenly, I’m breathing far too quickly and my hands have begun to shake.
‘I … don’t know why …’
His lips curl up into a smile and my God, he has a lovely smile. I want to reach up and run my fingers across his lips but that really would be out of order.
‘You have a talent there, Miss Scotton.’
‘But …’ And anyway, why is he smiling? The man hates me.
‘But,’ he mimics me. ‘I wonder why you’ve chosen to sketch my face?’
He leans further forwards, reaches out and takes hold of my hand, repositioning it slightly to the left so that the sketch is on full view again. It’s only a second or two of physical contact, but all sorts of mess is kicking off in my body. I’m a quivering wreck.
‘It’s not …’ Oh shit, why am I even trying to claim that it’s someone else? It’s certainly his face. It’s exactly his face … apart from the eyes.
‘And you’ve done this from memory?’
‘Yes.’
‘But we’ve only just met.’
I shrug my shoulders and turn back to the sketch. He’s leaning in closer again. I can almost feel his breath on my neck. And now I’m picking up on his scent. I love it. I could drink it in. I want to turn back around and dig my head into his firm chest, but that would be completely unprofessional.
‘And you already know me so well,’ he says softly. ‘I must have made quite an impression on you.’
Yes, you did make quite an impression on me, and you know it, my brain screams out. In fact, you make quite an impression on all women, and you know that too. And this particular woman may currently want to dig her head into your chest, but you’re an arrogant twat, and she’s not about to forget that. While my brain complains, my mouth refuses to work. Somewhere along the line, something has been disconnected. I remain silent. Turning over the notepad and hoping to God that he’s moved away, I get up from my chair. But he hasn’t moved at all. As soon as I take a step to the side and turn around, I slam straight into him and catch my breath. My face is right up against that chest and good Lord, he smells even more divine up close. A hand clasps me on each shoulder and I’m held in place by his grip. I find myself gazing up into his eyes and for a moment or two, I’m lost.
‘Steady now,’ he whispers.
‘I … er … need to …’ I point towards the kettle.
‘Of course.’
I’m released. He takes a step backwards, holding out his hands in apology. I’d like to move at this point, but I can’t. All I can do is stand rooted to the spot. He smiles again and I register a flutter in my stomach, followed by a delicious twinge down below. Oh God, he’s playing with me, manipulating me. It’s wrong on every possible level. He’s a complete shit and a womaniser. He’s a dangerous drug. I can tell that even now. Don’t even get started, my brain warns me. Before you know it, you’ll be hooked. Now snap out of this.
‘Can I get you anything?’ my mouth asks and I shake my head, wondering what I could possibly get. A cup of tea perhaps? A word-search book from Jodie’s desk? A bottle of nail varnish out of her drawer?
‘Water.’ He nods towards the fridge.
‘Please.’
I swallow hard, realising that I’ve just demanded manners from Mr Mean and Hot and Moody. Yes, something has definitely come loose in the circuitry. At some point, I really should have a good rummage through my brain, find that loose wire and plug it straight back in again.
He smiles slowly. His lips part. ‘Water, please.’
I make my way over to the fridge and lean down to retrieve the bottle of water, knowing full well that his eyes are fixed on my backside. There’s some grade A sexual harassment going on here, and I really should just get my bag and leave. And while I’m at it, I should lodge some sort of complaint with some sort of complaints department. I kick the fridge door closed, swivel round, approach him cautiously, and pass him the water with an extremely jittery hand.
‘Thank you.’ He takes it from me and I wonder, for a split second, if I’ve just seen a little shake in his hand too. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’ Without taking his eyes away from mine, he unscrews the lid and takes a gulp. ‘About our little phone call yesterday.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that. I must say, I was quite taken aback that Norman’s new girl would dare to be so rude to me.’
‘I’m not a girl. I’m a woman.’
‘Of course you are. I keep forgetting.’ He takes another swig of water, gives me another long stare. I feel my temperature rise. I glance back down at my desk. Oh God, I wish I had some work to get on with.
‘So, what about the phone call?’ I ask.
‘I just wondered if you’d like to apologise.’
Apologise? And why would I want to do that? Well, the sensible part of my brain reminds me, because it’s an easy way out of a tricky situation. But I ignore the sensible part of my brain. Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted and feeling distinctly prickly right now, or maybe it’s because there’s just something about this man that makes me want to wind him up. I don’t know exactly why it happens, but it does. My mouth opens and I hear the words fly out into the air.
‘I don’t think so.’
And you can sack me if you like, I want to add. At least that way I won’t have to finish off that bloody resignation letter.
‘You don’t think so?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
He stares at me for a moment, and I’m pretty sure this is the point at which I’ll be instructed to pack my bags and leave. Instead, he simply shrugs his shoulders and changes the subject.
‘Well, let’s have another look at that picture.’
Before I have time to react, he steps forwards, swiping the sheet of paper away from the desk.
‘I like this a lot.’ He straightens up with the sketch in his hand. ‘May I keep it?’
What? So he can admire himself more than he already does?
‘No.’
‘You don’t want to give it to me?’
Pardon? I’m not entirely sure he means the picture any more. His eyes are suddenly hooded.
‘It’s just not very good.’
‘It’s extremely good.’
‘It needs to go in the bin.’
‘Well, I don’t want to put myself in the bin. And if you don’t want to give it to me, you can always sell it to me.’
No, please. He’s not just said that. He’s not just made me sound like a tart!
‘Take it if you want it,’ I blurt. Oh, no, please, I’ve not just really made myself sound like a hussy!
He holds up the sketch and smiles.
‘Thank you, Miss Scotton. I will.’
Lowering the picture one more time, he begins to study my face. What the hell’s going on now? The smile fades, only to be replaced by a frown and he’s staring at my lips. Shit, this is all getting a bit sexually charged, or at least I think it is. I mean how would I know? I’ve never been in a sexually charged situation before. All I know is that he’s star
ing at my lips, and I’m wavering a little under his glare and there’s something pulsating between my legs and my skin seems to be on fire.
‘Teabags!’ Jodie announces, exploding her way through the door.
While Daniel Foster breaks himself out of his reverie, the pink one skitters across the office and slings a huge box of teabags onto the table next to the kettle.
‘I’d better get going,’ the big kahuna murmurs. ‘I’ll see you later.’
With that, he takes the picture and makes his way out through the door. I flump back down in my chair and take a few good deep breaths, battering my heartbeat back into submission. What the hell was that all about?
‘That looked a bit intense,’ Jodie muses, pulling off a fluffy pink gilet. ‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t really know.’ I pick up my book.
‘Well, can I give you a bit of advice?’
Advice? I gaze, dumbstruck, at the pink princess. ‘Feel free.’
‘If he comes on to you …’ Her plucked eyebrows struggle to raise themselves. ‘Run a mile.’
***
I spend another hour trying to read the first chapter of my book, but it’s next to impossible. I can barely focus on the words. My brain’s too busy mulling over Daniel Foster’s little visit and Jodie’s priceless nugget of advice. By half eleven, I reach breaking point. I’m in serious need of something to do. I could try another sketch but that might only land me in more trouble. Instead, I spend half an hour drafting out another letter of resignation but I still can’t seem to find the right words. As strange as it seems, I don’t want to upset Norman. I twiddle a pencil between my index finger and my thumb and decide that I’ve had enough. Closing down the computer, I shove the pencil to one side and shrug myself out of my chair.
‘I’m going out for a coffee,’ I announce.
‘But we’ve got coffee here.’ Jodie nods towards the kettle.
‘And I don’t want a coffee here. I want to go out.’
‘But it’s not lunchtime yet.’
‘So what?’ I hear myself rant. ‘Nobody’s going to miss me anyway. I mean, I don’t actually do anything. Nobody actually does anything. Why am I even here? Why are you here? Why is Norman here? I’m going out for a coffee and if Norman doesn’t like it, then Norman can bloody well sack me.’ I glance at Norman’s door. Thank God it’s still closed. ‘I’m off.’