Heaven Can Wait

by Cally Taylor

  ‘Sandwich, Miss Brown?’ the voice said again and I looked up.

  Sally was standing beside my desk, looking particularly eye-catching in her brightly embroidered jeans, blue tutu, pink trainers and tight pink vest top with a butterfly on the front. She also had a pair of fairy wings strapped to her back.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, waving her basket dangerously close to my head.

  ‘Cheese and ham baguette please, if you’ve got one left,’ I said, hitting the delete button and typing mine and Archie’s names into the form.

  ‘Are you and Archie going to a Star Trek convention?’ Sally said, peering over my shoulder.

  I shot her a look. ‘Yes, and keep your bloody voice down, it’s supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘So what is it?’ she asking, putting my sandwich on the desk and holding out her hand for the money. ‘Some kind of penance for cutting off all his hair?’

  ‘Oh ha ha.’ I placed two pounds fifty in her palm, fervently wishing she’d flutter her little fairy wings and fly off.

  ‘Thanks.’ She turned to go, then glanced back, looked me up and down and wrinkled her nose. ‘Why are you dressed as a stripper, Lucy?’

  I rolled my eyes. Was everyone in the office too young to remember Madonna in her pre-disco days?

  ‘Because,’ I sighed, ‘my very favourite things in the world are strippers.’

  ‘Each to their own.’ She shrugged. ‘Can you guess what I am?’

  ‘Some girl band member?’ I ventured.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A fairy?’

  ‘Close but no.’

  ‘I give up. What are you?’

  ‘I’m a bratz.’

  Wow. That was brave, admitting she was a brat. Maybe I should have dressed as an undead, completely crap matchmaker. Then I could have just turned up in my own clothes.

  ‘I don’t think you’re a brat,’ I said. ‘A little bit loud, maybe, but not a brat.’

  ‘A Bratz, you idiot,’ Sally said, stamping one of her big pink trainers on the grey carpet. ‘Jade in her Fashion Pixies look, if you must know.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I still had no idea what she was on about. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Do I look sexy?’ She grinned and shimmied on the spot. The fairy wings on her back sparkled as they wobbled from side to side.

  ‘Um, sure.’

  ‘Great. That’s what I was hoping,’ she squealed, then skipped across the room and smacked her basket against the head of her next sandwich victim.

  I turned back to my form, freaking out when I realised that they only accepted online credit card bookings. All my bank cards had mysteriously disappeared from my purse when I’d arrived in the House of Wannabe Ghosts, but I still had plenty of cash left (another two hundred pounds magically reappeared every time I got down to my last pound). I’d have to ring the hotline.

  ‘Hello,’ I whispered. ‘I really want tickets for the Star Trek convention this weekend, but there’s a problem with my bank card. Can I pay by cash instead?’

  ‘Yes,’ the helpline guy hissed, as though he’d answered the same question a million times before. ‘If you come to the box office before six o’clock today. Any later and you miss out.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘By six o’clock. OK, no problem.’

  I put the phone down and looked at my watch. It was half past one and it didn’t look like the fancy dress party was going to start any time soon. But it didn’t matter. I had to get those tickets, no matter what.

  At 2 p.m. the office suddenly went dark. I glanced at Nigel but he didn’t look the slightest bit perturbed.

  ‘Why have the lights gone off?’ I hissed. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

  He removed his headphones. ‘Were you talking to me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘that’s why I was looking at you and my lips were moving. Why have the lights gone off?’

  ‘Office fancy dress party is about to begin.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘There will be light.’ He smirked. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  I stared around the room, half-expecting my co-workers to jump up and explode party poppers, but everyone was still attached to their computers, their fingers frantically tapping away at their keyboards, eyes fixed to the screen. The only sign it wasn’t a normal working day were the outfits. I was particularly impressed by the guy across the room who was dressed as a kebab with chilli sauce dripping down his face (either that or he’d been in a terrible road traffic accident on the way to work). But even he was flicking through a book, casually picking his nose.

  I looked back at Nigel, but he’d put his headphones back on.

  ‘Nige,’ I said, poking him in the side with a ruler until he took them off again. ‘We’re having a party and no one’s excited. I don’t get it.’

  He sighed. ‘When you’ve worked here as long as we have, Lucy, you don’t look forward to the annual fancy dress party, you fear it.’

  I pulled a face at him. How bad could a party be, for God’s sake? Anything had to be better than slogging away at a computer all day, surely? I was just about to tell Nigel as much when the room suddenly flashed orange, red, blue and green. Disco lights had magically appeared on Graham’s desk and cheesy house music exploded from a very expensive-looking stereo beside them. Graham himself was standing behind his desk, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Gentlemen and ladies,’ he shouted, turning the music down and clapping his hands.

  Ladies? There was only me, wasn’t there? Ah, maybe not. Sally was squatting down next to Archie’s desk, chatting animatedly and waving her hands around.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Graham said again, ‘the party will begin in precisely five to ten minutes, once I’ve changed into my outfit. Then we’ll party and I’ll judge who is wearing the best and worst outfits. Joe will now circulate through the office with the charity bucket. Please give generously.’

  When no one said anything he turned the music back up and strode out of the office. Joe, who was dressed as Dracula, eased himself out of his seat and dangled a yellow bucket in front of my face.

  ‘Contribution please, Lucy,’ he sighed. ‘Five pound minimum for getting to dress like a twat for a day.’

  ‘If you all hate it so much,’ I said, dropping a handful of coins into the bucket, ‘why don’t you say something?’

  ‘Graham owns the company, Lucy,’ Nigel said, reaching into his wallet. ‘What he says goes. If you don’t like it, you’re out. Simple as that.’

  I turned off my monitor. Crap party or no crap party, I wasn’t going to do any more work. ‘But he can’t fire you for objecting to a fancy dress party, that’s not—’

  There was a loud knock at the door to the office.

  ‘That’ll be Graham,’ Nigel said. ‘You should stand up, Lucy. You’ll want a good look at this.’

  I eased myself out of my seat and looked warily in the direction of the office door as it swung open.

  OH MY BLOODY GOD.

  Graham Wellington, at least I was fairly certain it was him, was leaning up against the doorway. He was wearing a black leather choker, a pair of black rubber shorts, a pair of biker boots, a chain mail vest that revealed his very pert, very pierced, nipples and a mass of ginger chest hair, and … I swallowed hard … a black rubber mask covering his entire head.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  He was holding a leather dog lead in his hand. It was attached to a collar worn by a short, slim, heavily made-up woman with waist-length black hair. She tottered into the room in a pair of impossibly high heels, a red and black basque and red knickers.

  I turned to look at Nigel, my mouth opening and closing like a hooked fish.

  ‘What … the … hell … is … that?’ I squealed.

  ‘That, Miss Brown,’ Nigel grinned, ‘is your boss demonstrating his favourite thing.’

  ‘Making me throw up into my own mouth?’

  Nigel laughed. ‘S&M. He wore a similar outfit last year, but t
he woman on a lead – that’s new.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘God knows.’

  I watched, fascinated and horrified at the same time, as Graham strutted into the centre of the office and gestured to Joe to turn the music down. Dog Lead Woman grinned and tottered after him as though being led into an office on a leash was the most normal thing in the world. It was the singularly most bizarre thing I’d ever seen in my life. And death.

  ‘So,’ Graham bellowed, the rubber on his face stretching and distorting as he opened his mouth. ‘Time for the vote for best costume. To be quite honest, the majority of you have made sod-all effort. That said, I think there are three contenders for the crown. First, I’d like to nominate Mark for his kebab, at least I think it’s a kebab and not a giant vagina. Secondly, I’d like to nominate myself. And thirdly, I’d like to nominate Miss Lucy Brown for her splendidly slutty outfit.’

  I gasped and clutched at my crucifixes. Nigel sniggered.

  ‘Anyone have any alternative nominations?’ Graham asked.

  No one said a word.

  ‘Nominations for worst outfit then?’ he continued. ‘I nominate Archibald for making no bloody effort whatsoever. Anyone else?’

  Again, no one said a word. Archie, standing next to Sally by the door, looked at his feet.

  ‘OK,’ Graham said. ‘Time to vote. Who votes for Mark?’

  Mark and the guy who sat next to him raised their hands.

  ‘So that’s two for Mark’s vagina kebab. Who votes for Lucy Sluttypants?’

  Archie, Sally, Nigel, Joe and Geoff all raised their hands. So did a couple of guys on the other side of the office. I glared at them.

  ‘And votes for me and the lovely Miss Whiplash here?’

  My hand shot into the air, as did pretty much everyone else’s. I crossed my fingers and did a quick head count. Please let there be more for him than me, please, please.

  Graham counted hands and unleashed a dazzling smile. ‘I win. Ha!’

  ‘No surprise there,’ Nigel whispered. ‘He wins every year.’

  ‘Because I’m such a nice man,’ Graham said, scratching one of his exposed nipples, ‘I’m going to share the prize with you. Six bottles of champagne. Bring out the plastic cups please. The loser will do his forfeit later on this afternoon.’

  Shit. I’d missed out on six bottles of quality champagne. I should have been encouraging people to vote for me, not glaring at them, but Nigel had made such a big deal out of the forfeit for the loser that I’d assumed the winner’s prize would be awful too. I turned to Nigel to tell him as much, but was immediately drowned out by the thump-thump-thump of the music Graham had just turned back up.

  ‘Champagne?’ asked Kebab-Mark, proffering a plastic cup.

  I snatched it gratefully. ‘Fill it up!’

  By four-thirty I was drunk and talking to anyone who’d hang around long enough to listen. Most of the guys were speculating about who Miss Whiplash might be. Geoff thought it might be Graham’s wife (I pointed out that he wasn’t married), Joe thought she might be a professional S&M model and the more pissed he became, the more Nigel became convinced that she was a professional of a different kind. That made sense. I couldn’t see any woman agreeing to be Graham’s ‘doggy’, unless she was being paid.

  I was just about to suggest we replace Graham’s awful CD with something less offensive, when he turned the music off again. ‘OK, people,’ he bellowed. ‘Time for the loser’s forfeit.’

  Several of the guys whooped and hollered. Archie, still in the corner of the room with Sally, stepped closer to the door.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ bellowed Graham, stumbling towards Archie. ‘In the centre of the room please, Mr Humphreys-Smythe.’

  Archie folded his arms and glowered at Graham. No one said a word.

  ‘Come on,’ Graham slurred, grabbing his arm. ‘Miss Whiplash over there is going to give you a spanking.’

  Almost on cue, Miss Whiplash held a piece of wood shaped like a table tennis bat over her head and pirouetted. Geoff cheered and then hiccupped.

  ‘Graham,’ Archie said, taking a step back. ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Drunk shmunk, you’re a killjoy and you will be spanked,’ Graham said, yanking Archie’s arm and pulling him across the room towards Miss Whiplash.

  Archie, half a foot shorter and six or seven stone lighter than his assailant, twisted and pulled, but failed to extricate himself from Graham’s iron grip.

  ‘Bend over,’ Graham said, pushing the back of Archie’s neck so his knees buckled.

  ‘Fuck off, Graham!’ he shouted, lashing out with his arms and wriggling.

  The entire office was silent. Even Nigel was lost for words. We were all rooted to the spot, gawping at what was happening at the far end of the room.

  ‘Spank him, Miss Whiplash,’ Graham said, raising one hand in the air and beckoning with his index finger. ‘Archie has been a very naughty boy and deserves to be punished.’

  Miss Whiplash tottered towards Archie and raised her paddle. ‘Prepare to be—’

  A pink blur flashed through the air and knocked her to the ground. Several people gasped.

  ‘Graham!’ Miss Whiplash squealed, her spiky heels pedalling the air, her black wig askew. ‘Graham, help me.’

  But Graham was otherwise engaged. The pink blur had moved on and was kicking him in the shins, hard.

  ‘Get off him, you perve!’ it screamed, hanging onto his chain mail vest and ripping off his gimp mask. ‘Get your filthy hands off him.’

  It was Sally, her pink trainers pummelling Graham’s legs, her eyes wide, cheeks flushed and fairy wings distinctly skew-whiff. Graham pushed Archie away and turned to face his unknown attacker.

  ‘Go on then,’ Sally said, jumping off him, shoulders back, her stance wide. ‘Spank me and see what happens then. I dare you.’

  Graham visibly paled. ‘Get out,’ he said quietly. ‘Get out, both of you. Now.’

  Archie picked himself up off the floor and tapped Graham on the shoulder.

  ‘I quit,’ he said, his fist flying through the air and smacking Graham straight on the chin.

  The whole room gasped and then they were gone – Sally and Archie – straight out of the door.

  ‘What are you lot looking at?’ Graham said, rubbing his jaw as we all stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘Get out before I sack the lot of you. Out. Now.’

  I looked at my watch. It was five-fifteen. Should I go after Sally and Archie or to the Star Trek box office? I only had forty-five minutes before it closed. My heart hammered in my chest. What should I do? What should I do?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Saturday 11th May

  Day Fifteen

  I hopped from foot to foot outside Edgware tube, clutching the tickets in my sweaty palm. It was Saturday morning and I had absolutely no idea whether Archie was going to show up for the Star Trek convention or not. Or even if he was still speaking to me. It wasn’t until after I’d bought the tickets that I’d started to regret my decision. I’d watched him get publicly humiliated by our perverted boss and just stood by and cringed. If it wasn’t for Sally, God knows what would have happened. It didn’t bear thinking about. I hadn’t even run after them to check if Archie was OK. If I was him I don’t think I’d speak to me, either.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said a cheery voice just behind me. ‘It might never happen.’

  It was Archie. His hair was ruffled, his chin was rough with stubble, and he had dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ I said, feeling excited and nervous at the same time.

  ‘Why not?’ he said, looking bemused. ‘It’s not every day you get invited out for a surprise excursion.’

  ‘I just thought … I mean … after what happened yesterday,’ I garbled, twisting the tickets in my hands. ‘What I mean is, are you OK, Archie?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure, never been better. I’m jobless, girlfriendless, and I was woken up at
7 a.m. by Grandmother, who wanted me to pop to the corner shop because she fancied some kippers on toast for breakfast.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t she just go herself? She looked nimble enough at the speed-dating event.’

  Archie gave me a disapproving look. ‘Lucy …’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I held out my hands. ‘I’ll keep my opinions to myself. Let’s go.’

  ‘Great.’ Archie grinned. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’

  We strolled down the street towards the conference centre, nattering on about nothing in particular as we walked. Whenever there was a pause in conversation I filled it with random comments about the weather or the people we passed and made Archie laugh with my descriptions of Brian and Claire’s weirder habits, even though he hadn’t met them. If I kept talking, I reasoned, he wouldn’t get chance to admonish me for doing nothing when he was nearly publicly spanked the day before.

  ‘Stop,’ I said, just as we were about to turn the corner to the conference centre. ‘I need to cover your eyes.’

  There was an enormous poster of Spock, Captain Kirk and the plastic-looking robot guy hanging over the entrance, and I wanted to see the look on Archie’s face when I unveiled his treat.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I asked as we stumbled to a halt in front of the building.

  ‘Yes.’ Archie’s cheeks bulged under my fingers as he grinned. ‘Quite ready, Miss Brown.’

  ‘OK then, ready, steady … look!’

  I pulled my hands from his eyes and peered at his face, waiting for a look of delight to appear.

  ‘It’s Star Trek,’ I chirped. ‘Your favourite.’

  He looked from the sign to me, and back again.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Archie said, then burst out laughing.

  I stared at him, utterly perplexed as he rocked back and forth, clutching his stomach. Wow. I’d never seen someone laugh with such happiness before. It was extraordinary, and ever so slightly scary. I’d never seen Archie get quite so hysterical.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, you are funny,’ he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said I liked Star Wars. Not Star Trek .’