Stuck On You

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘I needed some water – I saw the light on from the kitchen,’ he says. ‘What are you two doing?’

  He knows what we’re doing – or what we were doing, at least. Once again, so relieved we were just lying still when Ray walked in.

  ‘We’re just… we were just…’

  Damian doesn’t know what to say and I’m not exactly helping him, just lying here in mortified silence.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ Ray says.

  As he pulls the door closed behind him we can just about make out him chuckle to himself: ‘Didn’t I say no one brings “just a friend” to meet their parents...’

  34

  Waking up in my bottom bunk I can’t help but wonder if last night might have been a dream.

  ‘Morning,’ Damian says as he places a tray with a cup of tea and some biscuits down next to me. He leans forward and kisses me on the lips, anchoring me in reality. Last night did happen.

  ‘My mum and dad have gone out to get the shopping for the party tonight,’ he tells me. ‘I’m going to jump in the shower. You just chill out there, drink your tea. I’ll be back before you know it.’

  ‘OK,’ I say with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

  As Damian heads for the bathroom, with a real spring in his step, I grab my phone from the bedside table. I open my inbox to check my emails and notice one in Damian’s inbox – the one that I manage.

  My heart sinks when I see who the sender is: lottie@lottieloves.com. Subject: Here we go. And it’s an email with attachments too. I don’t want to open it about as much as I absolutely need to open it.

  Misplaced your number but here’s that Christmas present I promised you. See you in the New Year. xxx

  I can only see the top of the image included with the email but it’s obvious what it is. I can see Lottie – doing that stupid, vacant look she does in every single picture, with the pout and the stare. Her shoulders are bare. Do I really need to scroll down?

  Of course I do and the inevitable soft porn turns my stomach. Not because the sight of boobs offends me – truth be told it’s a sight I’m kind of indifferent towards, given that I have some of my own – but because of what the message said. Misplaced your number. Here’s that Christmas present I promised you. This was all agreed upon back at the wedding. Why wouldn’t he tell me, if he had something going with someone? If he knew these photos were coming? Why would he make plans with her? He made out to me as if he didn’t even like her…

  I jump out of bed and throw on my clothes because whether I do or I don’t confront him with this the second he walks back into the room, I don’t want to be nearly naked when it happens.

  I angrily stuff my things into my case as I think about what a mug I’ve been. I'm just putting on my boots when Damian walks back in. He’s only got a towel around him and he was probably expecting to find me still in bed, so the fact I’m putting my boots on seems all the more obvious.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks as his face falls.

  ‘You got an email,’ I blurt immediately, so I guess that’s the route we’re taking. ‘From Lottie.’

  ‘Oh, God, what did she want?’ he asks. ‘Was she offering to give me a reference for my CV?’

  He laughs but I don’t find it funny.

  I pull up the email on my phone and hold it up in front of him. The photos catch his eye for a second before he looks away hurriedly.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ he says. ‘She’s not shy.’

  ‘Neither are you, by the sounds of it,’ I say.

  His eyes shift from looking in any direction but the phone to meeting my gaze instead. I’m still holding the phone out in front of me but he looks beyond it.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he asks.

  ‘“Misplaced your number,”’ I start reading, doing my best, exaggerated take on her super-squeaky voice. ‘“Here’s that Christmas present I promised you. See you in the New Year. Kiss, kiss, kiss.”’

  Damian laughs.

  ‘This isn’t funny, Damian,’ I say.

  ‘It is,’ he insists. ‘She’s full of it. I never gave her my number. I certainly never asked her to send me anything or made any plans with her. She’s just trying her luck.’

  ‘You must have given her your email address,’ I point out.

  ‘Yeah, the one you check the messages on,’ he reminds me. ‘I figured you’d tell her to piss off for me.’

  ‘Oh…’ I don’t know what to say now. ‘I’m sorry. I guess it takes a lot of trust, to navigate stuff like this.’

  Damian grabs his phone from the desk. He unlocks it, taps the screen, and then tosses it to me. I look down at it to see his open photo gallery.

  ‘Go through my phone,’ he insists. ‘Check my emails, my WhatsApp, Instagram – scroll through my pictures. There’s nothing in it but you and me and Christmas. I’ve hardly touched my phone this past couple of weeks.’

  I can see from his camera roll that it’s all just pictures from the last couple of weeks. Selfies of the two of us, pictures of my family, all of the dumb Christmas stuff we did…

  ‘I don’t need to look,’ I insist, tossing it back. ‘I’m sorry, I overreacted because this is all new and weird… I guess we just need to trust each other.’

  Damian scoffs. Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.

  ‘You're one to talk about trust,’ he says. He actually sounds annoyed at me now.

  ‘Look, I overreacted, I'm sorry,’ I say. ‘Please don’t be offended. It's more my issue than yours.’

  ‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about trust,’ he says. ‘You’re gunning for me, over something that didn’t happen, weeks before we got together. But you’re the one who can’t be trusted.’

  I just stare at him for a second. I don’t know…

  ‘You’re not being honest with me,’ he says.

  I still can’t make any words come out.

  ‘I know that you’re leaving me,’ he says.

  Oh.

  ‘I know that you’ve got a new job – when the hell were you going to tell me? You’ve had weeks now,’ he says.

  Now I can think of a million things to say but none of them feels right.

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ I insist. ‘It was just… wait, how do you know?’

  How could he know? Did the gallery contact him for a reference? Did someone let it slip at home?

  ‘You told me,’ he says.

  ‘I told you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I’ve been agonising about it for weeks, feeling worse and worse about it as we’ve been growing closer, so unless I’ve been babbling about it in my sleep…

  ‘When did I tell you?’

  Damian puffs air from his cheeks.

  ‘You told Adam,’ he says.

  ‘So… Adam told you?’

  ‘I’m Adam,’ Damian says slowly and clearly.

  ‘What do you mean? You’re not Adam. I’ve seen a picture of Adam and he isn’t you…’

  ‘The Adam you swapped notes with is me,’ he says.

  ‘Damian, I am so confused,’ I say as I sit down on the bed. ‘His photo was on the desk – Selena found him online, it said he worked for you…’

  ‘He did work for me,’ Damian says. ‘He quit. You took his job.’

  ‘So… you sent me that first note? About yourself?’ I ask. It sounds as if that’s what he’s saying but that can’t be right… I have to be misunderstanding him…

  ‘Adam’s parting shot, when he quit, was to call me an arsehole, and a nightmare—’

  ‘You are an arsehole,’ I interrupt him.

  ‘So, when you started, I thought it might be a fun welcome prank to leave you a note… but then you replied, and you agreed. So the next few were just to see how you were honestly finding things, and then I just liked swapping notes with you. We got on so well and everyone in that office treats me like the boss, just the source of their income who they have to keep sweet, so the two of us chatting
in such a normal way… I really liked it.’

  ‘Damian, that’s so weird… You kept a picture of him on the desk,’ I say.

  ‘Technically I didn’t,’ he says. ‘Adam just left that behind when he stormed out. By the time I realised things were already out of hand. You’d put your picture up. So I led you to believe Adam worked in the office on the days you didn’t…’

  ‘But it was always you,’ I say, as if we aren’t both crystal clear on that. ‘How did you even…?’

  No wonder the real Adam never accepted my friend request. I did wonder why he always wrote in block capitals – it was Damian trying to keep his handwriting under wraps.

  I don’t suppose I ever thought to ask any questions about my predecessor. Well, the contact address is supposed to be a direct line to Damian, so there were never any names in there, and I was given my own personal email address when I started. And no one ever mistook me for my predecessor on the phone because, well, Adam is a man, I’m a woman. As soon as I introduced myself as Damian’s new assistant, why would anyone mention Adam to me? I feel like such an idiot.

  ‘I’d always be in the office before you,’ he says. He doesn’t seem proud of himself at all. His shoulders are hanging heavy by his sides and he’s looking at the floor in front of him.

  ‘So that’s why, when I told “him” I was quitting and asked him for a drink he didn’t reply – because he was just you, and that’s why he didn’t add me on Facebook.’

  ‘You tried to add him?’

  ‘My grandma did,’ I say. ‘But don’t be coming at me like I’m weird for striking up a connection over notes with someone when you were the other person and you were sending them as someone else. I feel so betrayed.’

  ‘You feel betrayed? OK, I hold my hands up, I apologise for the way I’ve gone about things. I didn’t know how to talk to you as myself, for the longest time, and it felt shitty trying to get to know you in one breath and then asking you to buy the office toilet roll in the other. But you’re not completely innocent either, are you? Like, inviting me home for Christmas with you…’

  ‘Oh, come on, you invited yourself,’ I say.

  ‘Because I was freaked out about you bailing on me and not telling me,’ he reasons. ‘I thought, if I could just spend some time with you, as myself, the real me, not the me freaking out over work or nagging you with work shit twenty-four hours a day… And when your dad asked me that question, about whether you chew my food for me, that was it, I could see where I was going wrong and I bucked my ideas up. For you.’

  ‘So all that was just for my benefit?’ I ask angrily.

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ he replies. ‘I had feelings for you so I changed.’

  ‘You had sex with me knowing you’d lied to me,’ I snap.

  ‘Yeah, well, so did you, the only difference is I stopped lying to you before I had sex with you. You weren’t going to tell me you were leaving,’ he says angrily.

  We’re both so angry, perhaps justifiably, but I feel so manipulated. The furious storm brewing inside me is too much. I’m not doing this any more.

  ‘Damian, I quit,’ I announce. ‘Get yourself some other mug to run around after you and swap creepy little notes with them. Alternatively, learn to look after yourself like a man.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you loved me being dependent on you,’ he replies. ‘You lived for it. At first you would offer to do more, to ease the burden, then you just started doing more, and suddenly you’re the gatekeeper to everything.’

  ‘I was doing my job,’ I stress.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to do it any more, do you?’ he replies. ‘And, here’s your leaving gift: you don’t have to work your notice. This is it.’

  His hostility wounds me even deeper. Does he really think he has the right to be annoyed at me right now?

  ‘Fine by me,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait for my fresh start.’

  I stand up and put on my coat as I rant.

  ‘Honestly, I have been counting down the minutes to when you are no longer my problem,’ I say. I grab my bags. ‘Good luck finding someone else willing to put up with your shit.’

  ‘Yeah, and good luck getting a reference,’ he calls after me as I head for the bedroom door.

  I feel the anger bubbling up inside me. How is he mad at me right now? Sensible conversation is out of the window – all I can think about is saying something to hurt him. I want him to feel as horrible as I do.

  ‘Ha, I don’t even need one,’ I reply. ‘Because working for you for a year without winding up in a padded room is clearly proof to everyone else that I’m hireable. So, in the words of my great friend Adam The Fucking Imaginary, I quit. You’re an arsehole and a nightmare to work for. All the best.’

  I slam the door shut behind me and head downstairs. I storm outside and I walk as fast as I can, terrified that he’s going to come after me, but he doesn’t. Once I’m clear of the house I take out my phone and start punching in directions to get home. It’s too late to head home to my mum and dad’s because, not only will it be hard to get a train, but it would be so expensive. To go home to London is much easier; it just means spending New Year’s Eve alone… Unless…

  35

  It turns out it takes a train, a bus, and a grand total of almost two shitting hours to get from Banbury to Camden, and trekking between various forms of public transport isn’t exactly living it up in a Range Rover but, do you know what, I am a woman on a mission, and petty revenge has fuelled me every step of the way.

  Am I still on the bus, staring sadly out of the window feeling sorry for myself? Nope. Am I moping in my tiny two-room flat, crying into an almost empty bottle of prosecco while I wait for Jools' Annual Hootenanny to start? Absolutely not.

  I have put on my tightest, shortest dress – and I am not usually a fan of (un)dressing to kill, but these are extenuating circumstances – my highest pair of heels, and I’m meaningfully marching through the doors to The Marjorie Hotel.

  It’s a big, fancy five-star London hotel that just so happens to be hosting a spectacular New Year’s Eve party in the ballroom, and I am invited. And there’s my date, over there, by the indoor fountain in the lavish reception: Brian.

  Not only will being here tonight – and plastering it all over my Instagram – show Damian that I don’t need him to get into fancy parties, but he’ll absolutely hate that I’m here with Big Brian.

  ‘Sadie, I was worried you weren’t going to make it before midnight,’ he says, glancing at his watch before greeting me with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Better late than never,’ I announce, perhaps a little loudly.

  So I might not have been crying into an almost empty bottle of prosecco while I waited for Jools' Annual Hootenanny to start, but I did drink quite a bit of fizz while I got ready to head out.

  It’s after 11 p.m. so I’m not surprised he was worried I wouldn’t show. But by the time I got back to Camden, got all dressed up, and raced over here in my slightly tipsy state it was unsurprisingly pretty late in the evening.

  Brian is wearing a tux with a black bow tie. His hair is neatly slicked down, leaving it flat to his head. He looks super-smart but at the same time he probably feels about as uncomfortable as I do.

  ‘I look like a bloody penguin,’ he says. He must be able to tell I’m looking at his outfit. I always think I’m so subtle, but I don’t suppose I am, especially not when I’m drunk. ‘It’s a work do, and there’s a dress code, so I didn’t have much choice.’

  It’s amazing how much more northern we sound when you stick us in the city. Even the voice in my head feels as if it sounds more northern right now.

  ‘You look great,’ I assure him. ‘Like a real adult.’

  ‘So do you,’ he tells me. ‘That dress… wow.’

  The fact I’m here, now, wearing this, might actually be me at my most immature but, you know what, I’ll take it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Shall we head inside?’ Brian suggests.


  ‘Sure, just let me…’ I wobble on my heels a little. ‘Oops. Just let me snap a picture of the fountain.’

  I hate that I can hear Damian’s voice in my head giving advice on how to frame the shot. No matter how hard I try I can hear ‘rule of thirds’ ringing in my ears. He’s always done this, everywhere we’ve been, and it’s always driven me mad… It has always produced amazing photos though.

  ‘OK, got it,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  Walking into the ballroom is like walking into a dream – well, of course it is: I’m nearly naked and my ex is here. The ceiling is covered with fairy lights, like twinkling stars over our heads. I don’t know what the walls usually look like because they’re covered with cream, silky curtains, and I don’t imagine I’ll remember what they look like tomorrow because I’ve had a few.

  As stunning as the room looks, the party is closer to the end than the beginning, so things aren’t quite as perfect as I’m sure they looked when everyone arrived. I’ll bet everyone looked gorgeous and had such high hopes for the evening. Now that it’s nearly over, the tables are messy and people are starting to look a little worse for wear too, either because their make-up is fading and their curls are dropping, or because they’ve had way too much to drink. A New Year’s Eve party is a pretty good metaphor for the year ahead, when you think about it. Everyone goes into it with resolutions to have the best one yet, but somehow, by the end of it, everything is just a mess. Still, there’s always next year.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Brian asks.

  ‘I’d love one,’ I say a little over-enthusiastically.

  ‘OK, I’ll be right back,’ he says. ‘It’s nearly midnight anyway.’

  I inflate my cheeks with air before slowly pushing every last drop out again. Oh, boy, I really did turn up late. Still, I’m here, and I’ve got my game face on, and that’s what counts.

  With Brian at the bar I take out my phone again. I hold it up at a high angle and strike my best Instagrammer pose. Head tipped, cheeks sucked in, pouting, looking as if I can’t tell the difference between the home secretary and my eight times tables. A proper vacant Lottie face, except I’ll probably keep my top on for the picture, thanks very much. Ergh, I can still see the pictures she sent Damian. I’ll never be able to look at a Christmas bow the same again.