by Sarah Belle
I extend my hands towards him and try to help him regain is full height. He quickly shrugs them away and struggles to tower over me again.
‘As I was saying, I am the one in charge around here, not you, so you’ll do well to remember…’
Whatever is happening inside him is painful enough to take his breath away. Is he about to pass out? Maybe it’s his appendix? Or a tumour? This could be really serious.
Suddenly, Hunter leans forward again and groans. He lays his hands on the nearby desk and lets it take most of his weight.
‘Hunter? What’s happening? Do you need an ambulance?’ I ask, making my way around to the phone.
‘Urgh…’
Hunter continues to hold onto the desk, his white-knuckle grip clinging to the glass top.
Then unexpectedly, a shrill noise like a leaky balloon fills the room, followed moments later by a gas so noxious that it strips the layers of every mucus lining in my body.
Was that…? No. It couldn’t be. Not from him. But the smell is unmistakable.
‘Hunter?’
My hand has already made its way to cover my nose, even though there’s no memory of moving it there. Must have been an act of instinctual self preservation.
‘Hunter?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says.
The white-knuckle grip is gone and he is able to straighten himself up again.
‘What was that?’ I ask, although there’s no need for an explanation. Years of teaching primary school children has taught me many things about bottom burps, most of all how to ease the humiliation of the bottom burper. But his nastiness prevents me from being polite and the words are out of my mouth before there’s any desire to stop them.
‘I must have eaten something, it’s okay. It’s passed now,’ he says.
‘No kidding.’
Hopefully he’s right, because if there’s another one in there trying to get out, I will break the land speed record in leaving this room.
It’s really, really hard not to laugh. Or choke. It’s a battle of epic proportions.
‘Right,’ I say, handing him his jacket. ‘You’d best be on your way, then. You don’t want to keep your old friend waiting. I’m sure she’s looking forward to…’
I lose the battle and burst into hysterical laughter as I visualise Hunter doing that in front of Geneva. Or better yet, during sex.
Hunter glares at me, but it doesn’t matter, because there are so many tears in my eyes I can’t see him properly anyway. Unfortunately, he can still be smelt though. He storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him. That must be my punishment, being kept in a room with such an horrendous smell.
Within seconds, Ella comes into the room.
‘What’s wrong? I could hear you laughing from the tea room. Oh God! What’s that smell?’ she says, cupping a hand over her mouth and nose. ‘Did something die in here? We had a family of rats living in here last year. Stinky little blighters they were. Are they back?’
That’s a new one, one man’s fart smelling so bad it’s mistaken for a family of rats! It’s enough to launch me back into hysteria.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here before we both die,’ I say.
Once on the safety of the other side of the door, I fill Ella in on what happened.
‘No way! Hunter Wincott farting?’
Still incapable of speech, I nod.
‘He must have eaten dairy,’ Ella says.
‘Dairy?’
‘Yes, he’s lactose intolerant, remember?’
My hand flies to my mouth, partially to hide my laughing. ‘Ooh. Whoops.’
‘Lou, you didn’t! Did you?’
‘He asked for a latte.’
‘He meant a soy latte, you goose!’ she says, joining in on the laughter.
‘Whoopsie, my bad.’
‘No, that entity in there is his bad! I think we’ve got some air freshener somewhere. Do you need to go back in there?’
My mind wanders to Hunter’s inbox. ‘Yeah, but I can hold my breath. Let’s leave it in there for him, a nice little greeting for when he gets back.’
‘Ooh, you are evil, Lou! But I love it.’
He hadn’t been lactose intolerant when we first met in London, so it must be a more recent development. Suddenly, a light bulb moment hits me. My brain glowing stronger than a 100 watter. Lactose! Just a little bit each day. Just enough to make him sick enough so he can’t work, but not enough to kill him. That’s it! Brilliant.
Chapter 11
Dosing Hunter up on milk again isn’t an option. Easy to get away with once, by accident, but surely he’d be aware of what he can and can’t eat. Besides, it’s unlikely that cheesecake, ice cream and Devonshire teas are on Hunter’s high-protein, low-fat diet. He’d find out about my plan and fire me, which would put me further away from getting Aiden back and helping him.
I spend most of the morning Googling lactose. For something contained within every product that comes from a cow, lactose is surprisingly difficult to find by itself. Just when all hope is lost, Google delivers my secret weapon right to my laptop. It’s so exciting that anyone walking by could have thought my lucky lottery numbers had finally been drawn. Bovine colostrum. Great for building a healthy immune system apparently, and sounds delicious. Not.
But the good news is, it’s in capsule form. All I have to do is pull apart the gel casing and stir the colostrum powder into his food and coffee. He’ll never know. Until his bum starts trumpeting like Louis Armstrong on a jazz solo. Oh, and maybe a small amount of pain. Nothing agonising, but enough to put him out of action, while Amelia takes over his role and listens to Aiden’s plans. My only other option is to run him over with my car, but that wouldn’t be very nice.
Consequently, my lunch break is spent in the Chemist Warehouse two blocks over. Very pleased with my progress, I tuck the tablets in my bag, out of sight, but ready for action when they’re needed. Right next to my first red lipstick. It was on special and is a shade I’ve always wanted to wear, but haven’t been able to because the school has a very conservative makeup policy. While it doesn’t transform me into Dita Von Teese, it is a bit sexy in a lavish kind of way.
‘I need lunch,’ Hunter says as he enters my office. ‘Something…’
‘High in protein and low in fat, I get it,’ I say.
He walks straight past me and into his office. The one that still smells like bottled-up fart. A little snigger escapes me as he coughs upon entering the room. He comes straight back out again into my office. He’s holding his iTablet and a few files.
‘New lipstick?’ he asks with a small smile.
Maybe the Geneva sexathon improved his disposition? This is the first compliment he’s given me.
‘Yes, it is.’ I smile back, a bit chuffed that someone noticed.
‘Looks bloody awful on you. You look like a cross between a cheap hooker and a child playing with her mother’s makeup. Get rid of it.’
The smile slides off my face.
‘I can’t have a PA who looks like Ronald McDonald. Ridiculous.’
Right now, I can’t wait to slip him his first bovine colostrum tablet. I hope his arse turns into a permanent bugle.
‘Okay, so…off you go. Lunch. Quickly.’ He shoos me away again. I push my chair back, grab my bag and start to walk out my office.
‘Oh, and by the way, pack your things up when you get back,’ he says.
Oh my God! Is he firing me? My heart takes on the rhythm of African drums, or has developed arrhythmia.
‘Are you getting rid of me?’ I ask, almost too afraid to hear the answer. This would ruin all my plans, all my hopes of winning Aiden back.
He laughs, one that reminds me of Cressida.
‘Soon, yes, but not until my work here is done.’
Oh, thank God. The level of relief surprises me.
‘We’re swapping offices when you get back. Something’s died in mine and I can’t sit in there anymore, but I’m sure it won’t bother you.’
Hang on!
‘Why wouldn’t it bother me? If it stinks then it stinks. It’s not as though I’m going to smell it any less than you would.’
‘Well, you are from the Western Suburbs. From what I’m lead to believe, that entire side of the city smells disgusting. It’ll feel like home.’
‘Eh…I…’ All words have left me. All good ones, anyway.
‘There’s no need to thank me. Now, lunch. Off you go.’
Arsehole!
* * *
Hunter’s lunch of turkey breast salad with tofu dressing contains the contents of 10 bovine colostrum capsules. After his remarks about my lipstick and the Western Suburbs, he deserves a bit of pain.
True to form, by the end of the day, his new office — my old one — contains the kind of rancidity normally found at a pea and ham soup-lovers convention. The paint is starting to peel off the walls and the flowers have began to wilt, which is really saying something because they are made of silk.
However, by the end of the day my nostrils have decayed to the point that they no longer feel pain, so it’s not as much of a bother as one might think. The odour, though, tells me that my plan is working – that, along with Hunter’s occasional grunting and groaning. It’s quite hilarious, in a gross kind of way. God knows what the gent’s room smells like. I say a prayer for the poor souls who must endure such torture, but it is for the greater good.
Aiden has been within touching distance several times today, but hasn’t noticed me once. This must be how Ben felt for all those years — invisible.
‘How’s it going?’ Mel asks me when I get home.
‘Well, my feet are killing me, only the cindered remains of my nasal passages are left, and I have resorted to poisoning Hunter with lactose.’
‘Lactose?’ she repeats. ‘You’re going to dairy him to death?’
‘Sort of. Well, not to death. Just close to death. To the point of not being able to work for a week or so.’
I explain what has happened today, along with my cunning, evil genius plan.
‘But, unfortunately, Aiden hasn’t noticed me at all. Not once. Well, except for the time when I fell in the boardroom door,’ I say, sinking back into the comforting arms of the couch.
‘He hasn’t even looked at you?’
‘Nope. Even if I did naked cartwheels down the hall way, he still wouldn’t notice me.’
‘Are you game to try?’ she laughs.
‘That’s a visual we can all live without. On the positive side, I did overhear his conversation about some charity running event the company is doing on Saturday. He’s attending training tonight at some park,’ I say, looking at my scribbled notes on the location of his training.
‘You overheard?’
‘Okay, perhaps eavesdropped is a more accurate description. So…’
‘Hmm?’ She looks suspicious, and with good reason.
‘So I joined up to do it too.’
‘You? Running?’
‘Not me. Well, not just me,’ I say, looking at her with deluded hope.
‘No!’ she says, giving me the most adamant display of head shaking possible.
‘Please, Mel?’ I say, giving my best puppy dog eyes. ‘Please, I can’t go by myself and he’s not responsive to me at work. I’ve got to think laterally now, try to get in his face somehow.’
‘A charity running event? You and me? Have you forgotten that you run like a duck? Has this magic stuff affected your sanity?’
‘Yes, it has. I am certifiable now, so please help me to put things right. It’s only an hour tonight and then something on Saturday. How bad can it be?’
She tuts and furrows her brow. ‘Yeah, how bad can one hour of exercise be?’
* * *
Mel and I assemble with the other event trainees and await the commencement of our hour of pain. It’s not only our Big W brand shorts and singlets that make us the odd ones out. Our soft curves and total lack of muscle definition also set us apart from all the Lorna Jane-clad gladiatrixes. Most of the men resemble Hercules, their muscles looking painful as they virtually pop out of their skin. My nose has a higher body fat percentage than all of them.
Aiden is amongst the men, looking long and lean, with his scrummy legs poking out the bottom of his running shorts, the kind slashed almost to the hip to allow for maximum stride length. I want to sink my teeth into that gorgeous toned thigh of his, and then lick his muscled shoulders…
‘Lou!’ Mel says.
‘Huh?’
‘You’re a bloody million miles away. What the hell have you gotten me into? Look at these people!’
‘It’ll be okay. It’s all part of the plan. Aiden’s here, he’s going to have to notice me, if only for the fact that I am the odd one out.’
‘They’re all so stunning. Is this a boot camp for supermodels?’ Mel asks.
‘Maybe. I feel like the only hobbit amongst all the elves.’
‘Hmmm, me too. Look, he’s gorgeous. I can see why you want him back, but do we really have to do this? It’s not too late to back out. I’m sure there are other ways.’
‘No! There’s only a few days left. I have to do this and I really need you here with me. Please?’
She hesitates, looks around us and then says, ‘Oh, alright, but you owe me, big time.’
‘Right, Mudders,’ yells the instructor.
‘Mudders?’ Mel whispers to me. ‘That’s not very nice. Is he referring to us as mother-fuckers?’
‘Maybe it’s personal trainer’s terminology, you know, motivational. Or maybe he has a speech impediment.’
His voice is pitched so low and raspy it sounds more like a growl. ‘I want half of youse over there,’ he says, his outstretched hand pointing to one section of the oval, ‘Half of youse over there’, as he points to another section.
‘Youse?’ Mel mouths to me.
‘And the other half to stay with me,’ he finishes.
The teacher in me wants to correct both his grammar and maths, but just going on appearances, this man is one I don’t want to cross. Not for the next hour, anyway. He looks like a walnut, all rippled and bulgy. It appears that he has absolutely no body fat whatsoever, just a covering of tattoos on the sheath of skin that covers each granite-like muscle. I christen him Sergeant Walnut.
We scurry over to the group Aiden has joined and await our flogging with an anticipation that is producing a cardio workout for me already.
Aiden looks focused and pays attention to what the other groups are doing, but there are 20 other people in our group, so getting his attention isn’t possible right now.
‘Right, you lot,’ Sergeant Walnut growls at us, ‘Warm up exercise. Run-sprint intervals around the oval. Go!’ he yells.
Mel looks at me with a ‘I want to kill you’ expression on her face.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth.
We take off with the pack, although it takes less than one minute for us to fall behind.
‘Sprint!’ he yells at us as he continues to torture one of the other groups.
My legs move as fast as they can, but it’s still not fast enough to keep up. If Sergeant Walnut were better at maths, I could point out to him that my legs are approximately 25% shorter than everyone else’s, meaning my stride is nowhere near as long. But something tells me he wouldn’t be interested in those statistics.
My breath is ragged, hacking its way in and out of my lungs like a chainsaw.
‘Run!’ he yells at us again.
We haven’t even done one lap of the oval yet and my legs already have the strength of partially set jelly.
‘Sprint!’ he yells.
We take off again. Mel is doing better than me, but only just. We hack and wheeze our way around the oval, tripping over nothing, gasping for each breath.
‘Right. Stop now,’ he yells. ‘Move to the obstacle to your right.’
We move over to a wooden telegraph pole laying on the ground. Hopefully we only have to jump over it a few times, because that wa
rm-up is the most intense form of exercise my shattered body has ever done. Mel clearly feels the same way, because neither of us have the spare oxygen to speak. Breathing is our only priority.
‘Log run. Pick it up, Mudders. Let’s go.’
What?! That log’s got to weigh the same as my car and he wants us to pick it up? Mel’s facial expression is murderous. If she had the strength, I’m sure she’d pummel me to death.
Each person in the group stands on one side of the log and bends down to pick it up. I do the same, except when they lift it up and place it on their shoulders, it’s above my head. All I can do is try to grasp it and hold on.
‘And go!’ he yells at us.
Clearly the others know what to do as they take off in a jog. Although my legs are already ragged, I do my best to keep up. It’s just luck that my place is in the middle of the group, so I am being pulled along by those up the front and pushed forward by those behind me.
‘And change!’ he yells.
Suddenly the group starts to lift the pole up over their heads. There’s no hope of me doing this because even if I had a ladder to climb on, my hands still couldn’t reach that high. Once again, my hands get a workout as they clamp on to the log. Without warning, my feet leave the ground as the group holds the pole over their heads and continue to jog. My feet are dangling a good metre off the ground as I do my best to cling onto the log.
The visual running through my mind makes me laugh. Thankfully, they bring the log down again so that it is resting on their other shoulder, which means that my feet have landed and my hands are no longer in a vice-like grip.
We do this another five times, and each time my body is lifted off the ground as they carry my weight, along with the pole’s. They must all be very glad when this exercise is over. If it’s any consolation to them, my hands are plagued with tiny splinters from my death grip, each one throbbing and then stinging when my sweat runs into it.
‘All together here. Lunges and burpees time,’ Sergeant Walnut yells as we all assemble in a large group. He gives an example of what we need to do— jump up in the air and land in a lunge, then jump up again and land in a lunge with the opposite leg in front. Then he jumps high in the air, lands on both feet, squats down and does a push up and repeats the series all over again. Are you freaking kidding me?