by Blake, Laila
"Hey you could... you know, you could come here?"
He looked up, and nodded. I think we both felt the aching, hollow feeling more starkly now.
It wasn't the same on the phone, however hard we tried.
IV
There were days when it felt like Paul and I were living in different time zones, different universes, maybe, like time simply passed differently for each of us. His time went slower, or faster—I don't know which one, but it didn't pass like mine.
Once, he sent me a text: My sweet pet, I'm thinking of you. Tell me how you're wearing your hair today.
I'd been in and out of meetings all day, had never even looked at the phone until it was almost time to go home. That was still early in this strange construct of our distance D/s dating experiment, and I knew him even less, couldn’t gauge his reaction or the gravity of my screw up.
The shock ran through my entire body; he had addressed me as pet, not Iris. The latter usually indicated a normal, casual conversation, but the former had already taken root in my body as a precursor to the harder voice, the commanding nature he could weave so effortlessly. And I had made him wait—not just a little bit, but almost all day.
I immediately texted back an apology along with my answer, then hovered over the phone for the last hour of my working day. I didn’t get anything done after that, just drummed my fingers on the desk, carried my phone along everywhere, even just to the kitchen to get some tea.
On the tube, I drafted a second text. Another, more serious apology. Still no answer. Then I spent the rest of the evening waiting, nervous and feeling indescribably and disproportionately guilty.
Nothing came. I finally fell asleep around two o'clock, and spent the next day tired and frustrated, exploding at the intern at least twice. That night, I called him, but he didn't answer.
Finally, I sent a quick email. I had to force myself to stay neutral and nice. At this point I no longer felt guilty. He was the one making me feel bad for no good reason, I had apologized. It had been an honest oversight.
He emailed back a few hours later, said he'd forgotten about that text he had sent me and wasn't even sure where he'd left the phone. He'd spent the day walking by the beach and then working on a particularly beautiful piece of driftwood he'd picked up.
We didn't phone every night, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred; he was happy—ranting about the sea and his work. I never told him about my panicked state. It made me feel stupid, like a teenager, and the last thing I wanted, was for him to see me that way, too.
Maybe it was the sea that did it, or the city. Maybe it was working nine to five, and tube carriages so crammed with people, their thoughts and odors permeated every part of me. Maybe it was walks by the beach, along the steady soothing rhythm of the waves.
The next time it happened, I tried to stay calm, but when it stretched for days, I finally called his landline and let it ring and ring until he picked up, out of breath and a big smile in his voice. He'd been working. Had it really been three days? He hadn't realized.
This time he apologized and we spent the evening together on the phone. A few days later, I had a huge package delivered. My neighbor accepted it for me, and I had trouble getting it into my flat. Turned out, he'd spent the last few days working on an intricate driftwood table for the side of my bed. It had sea glass worked into the wood, little glimmering mirror pieces and fisherman's rope.
The note said: You mentioned not having a place to keep a book and a lamp by the bed.
Later, he told me how this wasn't anything like his usual work, that he'd thought of me lying in my bed and different ideas and inspiration had sprung into his head. He described how he hadn't been able to stop working at it for days. He'd cackled when he told me how hard it had been to keep it a secret when I called.
That time, I did tell him. He made me, because he saw tears well up in my eyes over the webcam. That time, he'd thought of me as much as I had of him—but he'd spent it lovingly creating something for me, while I had hovered over the phone.
His time had passed in a flash of wood shavings and sea glass, while mine had lasted an eternity between meetings and trying to force my mind back onto the article I was researching, the project I was asked to manage.
I tried to take these instances as lessons, but that was harder than I thought. I still don't know how to handle it well, I still wonder every time whether he's finally gotten bored with this—the lack of touch, or the disproportionate amount of time he has to spend making me feel better.
It's hard. I didn't expect that; it's hard to be where he is not, to hold back feelings I'm not supposed to have yet.
***
“So, in conclusion,” I said, drawing a circle around my last slide with the red laser dot, “if we want to attract a younger target market to our magazine we need to aggressively pursue these three lines of action. We have to establish a bold, visually pleasing and interactive web presence; we have to take risks, feature more young, independent cinema in the actual magazine so that it actually stays informative and doesn’t rehash the same old things everybody can find with two clicks on their phone; and finally pursue a more inventive ad strategy.”
I swallowed, watching the three old men at the table across from me. They did not look happy. “That’s… the result of our research.”
George Lyle was tapping his finger against his lips; he’d narrowed his eyes some two minutes into my presentation and hadn’t relaxed since. The other two were clearly waiting for him to speak, and I played with the damn laser-pointer, sending a Morse code message against the grey carpet. My dad taught me when I was a child; all I remember now is my name.
.. .-. .. ...
Iris. Iris. Iris.
I got through five repetitions before Lyle cleared his throat.
“Can I assume number one and three are high budget ideas?”
I clicked the remote a few times until I landed back on the slide with the growth projections. I was not responsible for those, but I understood the math was sound.
“And number two a long-term one,” the senior staff member to his left cut in, studying the graphs.
“Of course,” I said with a shrug. “All of them will take time and money to implement. There’s no such thing as a quick and cheap solution to this. The market has been going through a fundamental shift for over a decade and we haven’t changed all that much. That takes some catching up.”
I could tell that Lyle was trying hard not to scowl, and I stepped back, lowered my head. I had been sending out resumes for a while, unsure of my future with the magazine, or the magazine’s future itself, but it wasn't a hiring market and I was stuck.
“What I meant to say is,” I started again, this time rolling my shoulders and crossing my legs, “that the team hasn’t unearthed any less time or resource-consuming options.”
“Which one would you recommend?”
I took a deep breath. “A combination of them all, really, with staggered priority. A strong, interactive web presence is the first thing we should work on, and at the same time start researching into new markets. TV shows, even web shows have started to catch up to movies in terms of quality and creativity—they are also the ones with a passionate following. We could start making room for that, give people what they want.”
I pulled my vest down and stuck my hands into the pockets of my trousers. “After those two are showing first results, we can walk new paths in advertising. But…” I looked around the three wrinkled faces, then pulled up my shoulders. “I’m not an expert, this is just what the team came up with, and my personal feelings on the matter. I’m just a writer."
They nodded; Lyle scratched his head, while the other two got up from their chairs. They squeaked and sighed under the release of weight.
“Thank you Ms. Ellis. We’ll keep you informed.”
“Mr. Lyle, um, could I have word, please?”
He nodded and waited until the others had left the room. My hand instinctively
found the phone in my pocket and I held it tightly like a talisman.
“I was wondering if I might take a few days off, next week maybe or the one after? I know it’s spontaneous, I just…” My voice trailed off and I shrugged. There had been an explanation in my head. I’d come up with it on the tube ride to work, but it had long vanished in a puff of nervous breath.
“Ordinarily,” he started, his forehead a knotted landscape of hills and valleys, “I’d make an exception, but I’d really like you to stay on top of this. I’m taking your suggestions to the board, but they’ll want to see results as soon as possible. They’ll want a plan. You brought up some good ideas for a new website, but that’s all it is. We need a firm concept, a budget calculation, the works.”
I swallowed and as a vague sense of lightheadedness came over me, I steadied myself against the table.
“But I’m a writer…”
“Or you could be a project manager. Comes with a pay raise.”
When I left the conference room, I had only the vaguest memory of agreeing to his offer. He mentioned contracts having to be drawn up and HR needing to be consulted, but he wanted to give me a shot.
Then I thought of Paul. I wanted to call him, tell him the good news—if that's what it was; I still couldn't tell. He had a way of really listening, though, listening in a way that led to new insights without him having to say a word. He cared; he joined in my tiny triumphs; told me he was proud of me. I would figure it out with him on the phone, but I would cry, too. And I'd have to tell him that I didn't have the faintest clue when I'd be able to take some time off. That I wasn't going to make it back to the sea, and instead would spend my weekends much like the last few: evaluating and reassessing my team's progress.
I slumped into my chair and moved the mouse haphazardly across the pad to get rid of the screen saver. My email inbox was full to the brim, and I leaned back, rubbing my temples.
V
I was back by the sea, walking past tiny cottages bracing themselves against the steady wind. They all had a tinge of grey to them; I think the salt just got to everything in time: houses, trees, people. Maybe that's why everybody I'd seen in the village had the same white hair, and the same deep lines, full of dust or tiny salt crystals.
I walked along Paul's driftwood fence, slowly, so that I could run my fingers over the structures, feel the soft sheen of the ancient trees, ground down by sand and salt. I took my time; waiting to let the excitement, the anticipation rise and grow in my chest. Paul was inside, waiting for me.
"Iris?"
I looked up, felt the lump in my throat and blinked the conference room back into existence. There was a cup of tea in front of me, still full, but no longer steaming. My team sat around me, all of them looking at me instead of the presentation projected on the wall. I felt a blush coming on and steeled my jaw against it, as though that would help.
"Are you back with us?"
"Sorry. Sorry... I... bad night's sleep." I rubbed my chin, tried a smile and tapped my pen onto the empty notepad in front of me. "Can you back up just two minutes? Sorry."
As though to prove my dedication to maintaining focus, I picked up the cup of tea. There was a pause around the table, but then we turned our attention back to Dan, the guy from the web design team who was speaking to us about current website trends.
He was a young man, about my age and from the new generation of computer nerds, handsome and gregarious, who made their talents and their slender frame work for them. He was excited—much like I should have been about getting to be part of a team that was trying to push our magazine into the twenty-first century.
Two weeks after I'd tentatively accepted a position as project manager, I hadn't grown into the role much. I was telling myself that I just had to get used to it, that my lack of motivation stemmed from sexual frustration and, possibly, an overblown sense of self-importance, nothing more. Truth was, the former alone loomed large enough to account for any lapse in judgment or mood.
I'd spent the previous evening on the phone with Paul and it was almost midnight by the time I was done bitching at him about my job, the team and, most ferociously, the board of directors and the obstacles they put in our way. I'd apologized, told Paul to interrupt me next time, but he seemed as calm and content as ever. I envied that a lot. We'd tried to turn the mood around. He was great, understanding, sweet, gently demanding... but I couldn't concentrate, couldn't get my mind into the right place and we finally gave up at around two o'clock.
I'd cried for a bit out of sheer exhaustion, and all day I had been thinking about the flash of helplessness that had crossed his face on the screen.
I ached for Paul.
And worse, I was starting to think we might have made a huge mistake trying to turn a one-night-stand into something else, something more. Neither of us seemed to know what we were doing.
I tried to focus on the image projected on the wall again. A projector fed everything Dan was doing on his computer into a beam of light and it hurt my eyes to follow his account this way. It was too bright in the darkened room. He was also talking too much. He wasn't the only one who had used a computer before. Sometimes, maybe unfairly, I wondered if I'd be happier in a company that employed more women.
"So, basically we're talking about interactivity, connectivity... that kind of stuff?" I asked, clearing my throat.
"Exactly. Today's net user wants to show off, compete and have fun. Here, I made you guys a list of ways other companies in the field accomplish this." He looked through his files until he found a few paper copies and handed them around the table. I skimmed my sheet and set it aside; most of these were ideas we had come up with in our initial brainstorming sessions as well.
"How about we break for lunch?" I asked, nodding at the clock mounted over the door. "We'll come back in an hour to discuss how we can implement what we just learned."
Chairs groaned, cups rasped over the table and the team—my team—left the room in pairs, talking quietly as they went.
"Sorry, I get excited when..." Dan started but I waved him off, putting on a bright smile.
"Not at all, it was a great presentation. I'm really grateful you joined our team."
He nodded, pushing his hand through his hair. It hung down to his chin almost exactly like Paul's did, and I was struck with a sudden desire to touch, to pull, and hold.
He looked at the door, then hesitated.
"Do you want to grab a bite together? You really look like you could use some sugar in your system." There was a sparkle in his eyes, like a joke I wasn't quite privy too. "It's on me."
I blinked, shaking my head before I could actually think about it. I wasn't really hungry, and I'd certainly heard enough of his voice for one morning. Still my throat closed up and I stepped from one foot to the other.
It struck me that it wouldn't be difficult to date him. He was handsome in a Harry Potter kind of way, and he had a good reputation. Everybody liked him at the office; he had a nice smile. I'd see him every day, we'd go for lunch together; share the same inside jokes about the office, leave together in the afternoon. And yet the prospect depressed me so much, I found it hard to breathe.
A knock at the door spared me an answer. We both turned and it broke the moment.
"Um, Iris? There's a delivery for you at reception."
I felt a modicum of guilt at the relief that flooded me. Dan shrugged and I dashed ahead—I've never been good at turning men down. How do you casually drop into a work conversation that you're seeing someone—or at least, that there is someone you're dating, who's on your mind all the time, even if his hands are never on your skin.
"Delivery?" I asked the UPS guy, who was leaning against the desk to flirt with our receptionist.
"Iris Ellis?" At my nod, he handed over a thin cardboard tube. I signed for it, a sprinkle of disappointment in the dragging flow of the pen. We were sent film posters and promotional material all the time, and I took a moment to feel stupid about the rush of excite
ment on my way over here.
Then I saw the shipping label.
There was the familiar, powerful sweep of straight lines, the long, smooth curve of the final s. I bit my lip, cradled the tube against my chest. My cunt contracted, just once. Arousal, however, was too closely linked to my tear ducts that day, and I avoided Dan’s eye as he ambled past me. I didn’t want lunch with him, I didn’t want anything he could have given me—and so I turned my back, and slipped into the closest bathroom, locking myself in a stall.
My hands shook when I tried to pry open the lid. It finally gave with a hollow pop and I stared into the dark hole. I couldn’t see a thing. Then I upturned it. I listened to the sound of something soft sliding over cardboard, held my breath. Then my fingers closed around a smooth, long object. I blinked, forced my eyes to focus on the flat leather strap. It had a warm, reddish hue, looked worn and worked, and it wasn’t hard to imagine his long-fingered, chapped hands on the handle, staining, darkening the leather.
I swallowed hard, pressed the strap to my lips. It was cool against the heat of my skin, and I reached into my pants just to feel my fingers curl against my cunt.
Paul.
I whispered his name out loud, “Paul.”
It choked me, just for a moment, and then I forced my fingers out of my pants and fished for the letter inside the tube. It was a regular sheet of printer paper with just a few words scrawled onto the center of the page.
Take a long lunch.
Find your favorite restaurant. Don’t order, don’t touch yourself, don’t try your present.
Text me for your next instructions.
-Paul
My hand was the first thing I stared at. I worried my bottom lip with my teeth until it hurt. It was dishonest, but I washed my hands before I left, scrubbed them long and hard and with a lot of soap. They felt too dry when I gathered up my things and found the last member of my team still in the building, sitting by her desk with her salad. I told her that I might be back a little late and to take the minutes for me while Dan finished showing them websites for inspiration.