After a too-long shower, I’m almost out of time. It’s always like this. I think I’m fundamentally programmed to be late for things. My twin, Jared, got all the punctuality, leaving me always running to catch up.
Shoving on my brother’s suit I wore to his stag do on Saturday night, I pick up a T-shirt from the chair in the corner of my room and give it a sniff. Clean enough. An extra squirt of aftershave will hide any traces that I wore it recently.
My coffee is now cold, but I chug it anyway and head out of my flat, stuffing all my papers and notebooks into my battered briefcase as I go.
As usual, I have to run for the train. I can see Amy on the platform, grinning and rolling her eyes as I jump on the first carriage and blow out a big breath. My stomach grumbles angrily at me, so instead of choosing a seat, I head straight for the refreshments carriage, buying more coffee and two small packets of biscuits. Everything always tastes terrible from the train, but with only two minutes to spare before it left without me, I’m glad I decided to forgo the café and came straight here instead. Sitting on the platform for an hour to wait for the next train does not sound like my idea of fun. Plus, this way, I get to see Amy too.
You see, this is where it all started. Around two years ago, I decided to get an earlier train than I needed, so I could visit the comic book shop in London before my meeting. It was merely a spur-of-the-moment decision. That was the day I saw the cute, petite conductor who worked the 8:09 a.m. Cambridge to London train. She dazzled me, and I remember that journey going past way too quickly. After that, every time I had to go to meet my publisher, I forced myself to get up earlier and board her train just so I could see her. It became my routine. For months, this went on. I’d flirt with her, but I never had the nerve to ask her out.
And then, one day, everything changed. I found out she was dating my brother, and I was instantly thrust into Inappropriate Crush on My Brother’s Girl Land. There was a little drama, but it all worked out in the end. Well, worked out for them anyway. They’re together, and here I am, still single, still fancying the shit out of her, still doing the five-knuckle shuffle on my own, night after night. Depressing.
Armed with my drink and snacks, I carefully head back through the train and flop down on a spare seat with a table, purposefully choosing one away from other people. Don’t get me wrong; I love people, and normally, I use the journey to chat with random strangers, but today, I’m too damn tired. I have just under an hour on the train; I could either sleep or use the time constructively to put some finishing touches to my illustrations before my meeting. I decide that, as appealing as the first option sounds, I need to get more work done.
Settling back in my seat, I sip my coffee and stifle a huge yawn as I watch the scenery whizz past the window. My lack of sleep is my own damn fault. As usual, I’m behind with my deadline. Every fortnight, I vow not to let this happen again, and every weekend before my meeting, I’m left doing a whole week’s worth of work in two days. I suck. It’s my own fault though—always is.
Instead of working last week, I binge-watched a Netflix true-crime drama about innocents on death row. It wasn’t even particularly good. I just got invested, and I’ll admit, I’m also a lazy sod at times. Working from home is hard. Staying self-motivated when you’re squirrelly is harder. I’ve often thought about hiring an office space with strict work hours, even considered getting some form of a boss and taking a proper job rather than freelancing (my publisher is always trying to put me on the in-house staff list), but it’s all too … grown-up for me. Working from my bed is a perk of the job and one of the reasons why I decided all those years ago to become a book illustrator instead of going down the more generic and dependable income route of some sort of design field.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair as I pull my sketchbook from my briefcase and open both packets of biscuits, starting to draw.
I’m lost in my work, so I don’t hear Amy until she stops at my side and reaches out, stealing my last biscuit. “Sharesies,” she states, biting it in half, dropping crumbs down her train uniform.
“Rude,” I mumble, looking up at her as I pull my pre-purchased ticket from my pocket.
She points an accusing finger at me. “You almost didn’t make it again.”
“I had two minutes. Don’t be dramatic.”
She rolls her eyes and takes my ticket, punching it.
“How was your hen party? Did you wear a veil covered in condoms and have to do shots from some oiled-up stripper’s belly button?”
She taps the side of her nose and narrows her eyes. “The first rule of hen night is—”
“We don’t talk about hen night!” we both say at the same time, laughing.
Hopefully, she had a stripper, so at least one of us got to see a professional strut their stuff in a G-string because Jared had strictly forbidden strippers from his stag night. Party pooper.
“How’s Jared?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Still hungover. He barely got off the sofa all day yesterday.”
“Excellent.” I grin proudly.
He was absolutely wasted Saturday night; hell, we all were. I performed my best-man duties perfectly and made sure he didn’t call it a night until he was singing karaoke and dropping pieces of his kebab down himself on the way home.
“I’d better get on; we’ll be arriving soon.” She glances over at my sketchbook and smiles. “Those are amazing, Theo.” She affectionately pats my shoulder and moves on to the next passenger.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the station, and I pack all my belongings, heading out. It’s mid-August, the height of summer, and today is a beautiful, sunny day. It’s much hotter here in London than back home in Cambridge, almost stifling with the lack of breeze. I take a slow, leisurely walk to my publisher’s office.
The receptionist beams up at me as I step in. “Theo! I was just thinking about you.”
I grin. “All good things, I hope?”
“Of course.” She chuckles and slides me a visitor’s badge across the counter.
I clip it on my breast pocket. “How’s your daughter? Did she get her A-level results back yet?”
I always chat with Donna, the receptionist, on my visits. She’s a lovely lady, a mother of five girls … yes, five. Her eldest sat her exams a couple of months ago, and Donna couldn’t be prouder of her and loves to boast and brag about her achievements.
“Not yet. She picks them up this Thursday.” She chews on her lip, her shoulders tightening.
“I’m sure she did great; don’t worry.”
We engage in casual, friendly chit-chat for a few minutes until some bike messenger guy comes in behind me and Donna has to stop to sign for some parcels.
I grin and tap on the marble counter as I send her a wink. “I’d better stop monopolising your time. I can’t wait to hear all about results day next time I come in!” I say as I walk towards the back of the lobby where the lifts are.
When I press the button, the doors open almost immediately. I step in and pull out my phone, mindlessly checking Twitter for anything new or retweet-worthy. Just as the lift doors are beginning to close, sounds of heels clacking quickly on the marbled floor in the lobby catch my attention.
“Oh, wait!” a female voice calls. More clacking sounds, closer now. “Hold the lift, please!”
I act on instinct, absentmindedly shoving my hand out and catching the heavy doors before they close, forcing them back open, my eyes barely lifting from my phone screen for more than a second.
“Ah, thanks so much!” There’s the faintest twang of an accent, but I don’t give it too much thought. The woman huffs a breath and steps into the lift.
“No problem. What floor?” I ask, flicking my eyes up to the panel on the wall.
“Oh, eight, please.”
I nod. That’s the same floor as me. I smile and look over at her, expecting it to be someone I’ve seen before if she works on my publisher’s floor; after all, I’ve been coming here regularly for
the last five years, so I know almost everyone.
When my eyes land on her, I feel a jolt of surprise. I don’t know her, have never seen her here before, but oh hell, do I want to!
The girl isn’t looking at me. Instead, she’s frowning down and rummaging through a ridiculously massive handbag that dangles from the crook of her elbow, obviously trying to find something.
I take a moment to study her before she catches me.
She’s probably a little younger than me, mid-twenties maybe. Dark brown, almost-black hair falls in perfect, messy waves down to the centre of her back and frames her pretty face. Big, almond-shaped green eyes turn down slightly at the edges to give her an almost-exotic look; they’re rimmed with impossibly long black lashes. Her eyes are partially hidden behind a pair of designer horn-rimmed black glasses, perched on the bridge of her cute button nose. Glossy, full pink lips pout as she frowns in concentration, trying to locate the desired object from her handbag.
I gulp and let my eyes wander over the rest of her.
She’s quite tall—I’d guesstimate maybe five foot eight or nine with her shoes on. She’s wearing a fitted blood-red shirt, open at the throat, exposing the barest glimpse of cleavage, just enough to set my pulse racing. The shirt is tucked into the high waist of a black pencil skirt that clings to her shapely arse. She’s not too thin; instead, she’s curvy and soft, all feminine angles, with hips to hold on to and an arse to keep you up at night. Long, toned legs lead down to three-inch red stiletto heels that make my balls clench in approval.
Her outfit choice screams confident professional. It’s sexy and sophisticated yet somehow understated. She’s not the usual type of girl I go for. I typically gravitate towards cutesy, petite girls who are a little on the weird side—pocket rockets you can’t ignore.
But this girl … damn.
Dragging my eyes back up her body, I see she’s balancing a cardboard tray containing four takeaway drink cups on one hand. The sweet smell of flavoured coffee wafts up and makes me wish I’d thought to buy myself one from the café on the corner before coming to my meeting. The coffee from the machines here sucks, so I generally avoid it like the plague.
There’s no ring on her finger. She’s fair game.
Okay, Theo, time to work the magic. I crack metaphorical knuckles and prepare myself to chat her up. I have eight floors to get her to agree to go to dinner with me.
I open my mouth to introduce myself and hit her with one of my best lines and winning smiles, but before I can, the lights flicker overhead, and a grinding sound rumbles through the lift. The woman shuffles on her feet, her search through her bag abandoned now, and we both look up at the red number 3 that’s glowing above the door. A split second later, the lights go off completely, and the lift judders to an abrupt stop.
“Oh crap,” she groans.
My stomach clenches as we’re plunged into darkness. A couple of seconds later, emergency lights blink and then illuminate under the handrail.
Oh, perfect. Stuck in a lift. Just what I need.
I heave a dramatic sigh and turn to face the woman as her bewildered gaze meets mine. Narrowing my eyes, I shoot her a mock accusing glare, saying the first thing that pops into my head, “Let me guess … you didn’t forward that chain message to ten people last night, and now, the karma gods have come to seek their revenge.”
four
Theo
The girl laughs awkwardly at my joke, and we both look up again at the glowing floor number above the door, waiting for it to fix itself. After a few seconds, my heart sinks. This is the first time I’ve ever been trapped in a lift. I’ll admit, I’m not crazy about it.
Reaching out, I jab the Help button over and over, my chest tightening with each passing second as the air seems to thicken around me.
Suddenly, a voice crackles through the intercom. “Hi. I know you’re in there. The lift has stopped. We’ve got the engineer en route already. Is everyone okay in there?”
I lean forward. “We’re peachy,” I lie. “How long will it be, please?”
“Um … not sure. He’ll be as quick as he can.”
“Not gonna lie, mate, that doesn’t sound too reassuring,” I grunt.
“We’ll have you out of there in no time,” he replies, his voice full of static and echo.
I groan and turn to the girl, forcing a fake smile. The last thing I want is to be trapped in an enclosed space with someone having a freak-out. As I think about the enclosed space, my chest tightens further.
She winces, her nose wrinkling. “Last time this lift got stuck, it took them almost an hour to get the people out. That was a couple of weeks ago.”
An hour? Heck no.
My upper lip starts to sweat. I reach up and wipe it.
The girl pulls out her phone and taps on the screen before putting it to her ear. “Aubrey, it’s me. You will never guess where I am.” She shakes her head and laughs. “I wish. Nope, I’m stuck in the lift. I’m serious! I’m stuck in the lift with a guy.” She chuckles at something the other person says, and her eyes dart to me before flicking away. “Um, yes actually. Anyway, can you do me a favour? Call up to my floor and have someone tell David I’m in here? He sent me out to get coffees for his meeting, but I don’t think I’ll be freed in time to give them to him, and they’ll be wondering where I am. The security guy has sent for someone to fix it, but I don’t know how long I’ll be in here. No, there’s nothing else you can do. Oh, wait, hold on a second.” She looks up at me and moves the phone from her ear. “Do you need me to pass a message on to anyone who’s expecting you?”
I gulp, my brain not really working, and nod. “Uh, yeah. I’m supposed to be meeting with Patricia Newman. If they could send word that Theo is going to be late, that’d be great, thanks.”
She speaks for a few more seconds and then hangs up, smiling awkwardly over at me. “My colleague will pass on your message.”
I nod. My eyes rake over her face; she really is pretty. Her lips are full and covered in a glossy pink lipstick that makes me want to lean in and see what it tastes like.
“Is it hot in here?” I ask, feeling sweat break out on my temples now too.
Her eyes widen. “Oh Christ, you’re not claustrophobic, are you?”
“No.” I adamantly shake my head. “I’m just having some sort of chest and heart issue. But seriously, is it getting hotter, or is that just me?”
She gulps and sets her handbag and the coffees down in the corner as I suck in a deep breath and rub my face in a rough swipe.
“Everything’s fine. This happens all the time. It’s getting hotter because the air con went off with the power. There’s nothing to worry about.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Why don’t you come sit down here with me? We can get to know each other while we wait?” She awkwardly manoeuvres in her tight pencil skirt and sits down against the wall, stretching out her long legs, crossing at them at the ankles as she pats the space next to her. “You said your name is Theo? I’m Lucie.”
Lucie. I note her name, but chatting her up is now way down on my list of priorities.
Her posture is stiff and resigned. I can tell we’re not getting out of here anytime soon, and she’s trying to distract me from whatever freak-out is building inside me. I’ve never been claustrophobic before, but then again, I’ve never been trapped inside an enclosed space before, so who knew I wouldn’t like it? Lucie doesn’t look flustered though, and her cool demeanour calms my racing heart. Maybe sitting down is a good idea. My legs do feel somewhat wobbly.
I slide down the wall next to her and shrug off my suit jacket, folding it and laying it on the floor next to me. Smiling at my cooperation, she reaches over, picking up the tray of drinks, and drags them closer to her. As she does, it catches on the strap of her handbag and makes it tip over. A Magic 8-Ball rolls out, followed by a box of three Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a bunch of other junk. Her bag is like the one from Mary Poppins, bottomless and full of crap. The 8-Ball hits my leg, so I pick
it up and smile fondly. I haven’t seen one of these for years.
Instantly, I shake it. “Will we die in this lift?”
My reply is no.
I huff a relieved sigh, and actually, stupid as it sounds, my chest does loosen at the answer. “Well, that’s a relief. I still have so much to tick off my bucket list.”
Lucie laughs, and I set the toy back next to her bag. “We might as well drink these before they get cold.” She holds up the coffees in offering.
I nod. “So, what have we got?”
Squinting down at the cups, she attempts to make sense of the tick boxes on the side of them, reading them out.
When she says, “Mocha,” I nod and call dibs.
I’m never not calling dibs on something again; I learned that the hard way. After dumping in a couple of sugars she produced from her gargantuan handbag, I sit back and take a sip of my coffee, closing my eyes, letting the sweetness and caffeine wash over me.
When I open them again, I see she’s watching me, and there’s a small worry line between her eyebrows.
I smile and tilt my head. “I’m fine, honestly. Not going to have a panic attack.” I don’t think anyway.
Her shoulders seem to relax at my assurances.
My gaze drops to the box of doughnuts half-hanging out of her bag. “Are we sharing those?”
She quickly shakes her head. “No, they’re for a meeting.”
“Yeah, a meeting that will likely be finished by the time we get out of here—you said so yourself. What a waste, and look at us, all cooped up and in need of sustenance and sugar to keep us alive.” I reach for the box, greedily eyeing the contents. They’re not merely the glazed ring kind; they’re the sickly sweet kind, covered in toppings that taste like sin in your mouth.
Stand-In Saturday: (A standalone romcom. Book 2 in the Love For Days series) Page 3