SEVEN DAYS (8 page)

She had blown the cobwebs away, only to find that there was nothing beneath. It was only her body, the cold tiles and the sound of water washing London grime down the plughole.

She squeezed her eyes shut to squeeze out the world and squeeze back the tears.

Under the rush of water spraying her body, she heard his voice, dry and smooth:

“You have your fantasy; I have mine...”

She wondered what he meant by that. What was he implying by: “I have mine.”

Was she a part of his fantasy future, even now?

Eyes still closed, she allowed her hand to explore the smooth skin of her stomach.

“...have your fantasy...” Mark was saying in her head and she cut him off there.

She let her fingers draw a pattern in her soft pubic hair, imagining that it was Mark, no, Peter, no, a guy she'd seen on the tube, no Mark, teasing her. She decided to make him the best lover that she had ever had. He knew just when to stop stroking her hair and slide gently between her legs. He knew not to rush her. He knew that she wanted him and that there was plenty of time to enjoy this. Plenty of time.

Too much time.

She imagined his kiss on her inner thigh and sighed out loud, allowing the shower head to spray fine jets at her, sending rivulets over her as she delved deeper and sent the first of what she anticipated would be many shockwaves rippling through her body.

She placed her fingertips on her clitoris and began a circular motion, quickly sending pulses of pleasure throughout her body. She pleasured herself  vigourously, impatiently, pushing back against her fingers, her spine hitting the tiled wall and her mouth an ‘O’, because she was soaring so quickly to the cusp of her orgasm.

She knew her body better than any man. More’s the pity. But she was able to seize upon her sensation and fold it into itself, doubling it and doubling it again, kneading her pussy and bringing herself closer and closer to that explosion of feeling that she craved.

In the end, Peter had been an appetiser. Now she was tingling all over. She massaged her breasts, feeling how hard her nipples had become under the shower spray. They were like studs jutting out from her ample breasts.

As she washed Peter away, she welcomed her new arousal and her new appreciation of her body.

She gasped, because she was so close to coming. Her pussy was aching and the muscles of her forearm were taut with the pressure she applied to herself, but that final push evaded her.

The thought of Mark in the shower with her came to her then. She had him on his knees, his tongue against her pussy, his fingers sliding into her and his eyes on hers, because she wasn’t just an object to him.

His eyes lingered on hers, because he wanted her to feel at least as good as she was making him feel.

“You have your fantasy,” he had said. She certainly did.

And yet, it wasn’t right, because if she hadn’t been so impulsive, so close-minded, this fantasy might have been a reality. Instead, she was alone. She seemed to be destined to be alone.

She chased the pleasurable sensations, but her body was already getting away from her, her over-active mind getting between her and the release she needed.

She gave up and her entire body ached with loss. Unfinished business.

The water ran cold and she stood beneath it, thinking it might help. Not long after, her doorbell rang. It sounded for a long time, insistent.

She shut off the water, grabbed a towel and stepped into the hall.

She knew instinctively that Mark had returned. Though she dried herself, a certain part of her remained wet for him.

Her heart was hammering and she felt lightheaded. Not everybody gets a second chance. If he was willing to grant her one, then she was willing to do the same. Maybe he really was a hot shot art critic. More likely, he was just some guy she happened to meet at a gallery. Perhaps he had invented the writing thing, because he was a bit embarrassed about what he did for a living. Perhaps that was the reason he hadn’t once asked her what she did for a living. He’d been avoiding the subject entirely.

It no longer mattered to her. The fact was that he seemed like a really nice guy and he had a great body to boot. She wasn’t going to let her hang-ups and issues get in the way, particularly when they were actually a hangover from past, botched relationships. Why make Mark pay for that? Why not give him a chance and at the same time give herself a clean slate?

But she couldn't go downstairs like this.

“One minute!” she yelled and threw on tracksuit bottoms and a vest. She was knickerless and braless, but she didn't want to risk Mark giving up and walking away. She glanced at herself in the mirror before leaving the room and thought that she didn't look too bad. With her long, black hair wet from the shower, she might even say that she looked good.

Sexy,
she thought.
Go on, give yourself that.

She gave herself a twirl.

You look sexy.

Thanks to her play in the shower, she
felt
sexy too. His timing was good.

She ran down the stairs and then slowed herself to a measured walk in case he could hear her feet on the steps.

She looked through the peephole, but Mark wasn't standing on the other side.

When Judy opened the door, Lisa, her neighbour, was standing with her palms upraised and a look of shock on her face.

“You let him go!?” said Lisa.

“Who?” said Judy.

“What do you mean 'who'!?” She had a strong, Eastern-European accent and launched her words at Judy like missiles. “The guy! The guy on your doorstep! I was watching. You let him go!”

“Yes,” said Judy. “I let him go. He wasn't a puppy. He was a man.”

“He certainly was.”

“So?” Judy said, playing stupid in the hope that Lisa would let her off the hook. Always a mistake.

He was sitting on your step for twenty minutes and so I opened my door and I said—I'm sorry, Judy - but you know I cannot help myself—I said: 'You can wait in the warm if you like, I'm sure she will be back soon', hoping—I'm sorry, Judy—that you wouldn't be back at all. You know what he said?”

“No.” She attempted to sound disinterested. Failed. “What did he say?”

Lisa imitated Mark's smooth voice. “He said: 'That's very kind, but I want to be here when Judy arrives'.”

“That was nice,” admitted Judy.

“Nice!? I was wearing this!” she indicated her short, silver dress that accentuated her hourglass figure. It was a large hourglass, but that only made her sexier. Her breasts were enormous and Judy could be sure that she had made sure Mark got a good look at her cleavage. Her lips were reddened with lipstick and her eyes blackened with mascara.

Comparing herself to Lisa, Judy reconsidered her sexy status. Standing next to her neighbour, she looked as if she'd thrown something on so she could clean the bathroom.

“I sent him away,” Judy said.

“He was gorgeous and he waited for you in the rain and the cold for an hour and you told him to go away? What were you thinking?”

“He was a liar,” Judy said weakly.

“So are you!” Lisa told her. “You lie to yourself. You say that there are no good men and then you push them away.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Only what you tell me. You push the good ones away. You go for men that are not worthy of you. Like Peter.”

“I don't want to talk about Peter,” said Judy.

“You're like a train, always keeping to the tracks. You should take some risks. What did he lie about?”

“He pretended to be something he’s not.”

“Why?”

“To impress me.”

“And? The problem is...?”

They shared a silence.

“Oh Lisa, what have I done? Would you like to come upstairs for a drink?” Judy asked hopefully.

“No,” Lisa said. “You said that very sweetly, but you’re an hour too late and you’re asking the wrong person.”

Chapter Three: Open With Care

Albert Camus:
“A work of art is a confession.”

At the end of the following work week, Judy sat at her workstation, which was no different to any other workstation in her office, even though she was the leader of her team, responsible for supplies and communication between the warehouse and the sales office.

“Communication,” she muttered. “I'm terrible at communication. How the hell did I get this job?”

She’d worked for it, was the answer, and she'd worked hard. There were some men who thought she was given the job, because she had flashed her legs. Not true, and not least of all because she normally wore trousers to work and tops with sleeves and buttons. Even in summer.

This was not a catwalk, it was an office, and she often visited the warehouse. Despite what they seemed to think, she didn't want men leering at her. She didn't 'like it really'. And she had to be able to lift boxes as well as the best of them, because, like almost every business these days, they were understaffed.

She got the job because she had worked harder and longer than anybody else. But she couldn't remember why.

In her imagination, she batted the subject around with Mark, sure that he would have an interesting take on her situation. At the Tate, he had been like a hawk soaring above, gliding on invisible currents, while she had been lost in the maize.

He had lifted her up, opened her eyes and then dumped her right back into the corn again.

Maybe it would have been better not to remember how exciting life could feel. She hadn't been exactly happy this time last week, but this morning she was miserable.

Ignorance,
she thought.
Give me ignorance. Forty milligrams. Morning, afternoon and night.

She stared at her screen. She had twelve browser windows open and she could neither remember why nor which one she had been on. It reminded her of a comment Mark had made in passing about being a young man on the internet, stuck in a porn loop, attempting to close browser windows faster than they could open, torn between closing the session and losing all the legitimate work he had been doing, shutting off the computer's volume or pulling up his trousers. They all had to be done. It was just a question of in which order.

She laughed out loud now and people looked. So much for open plan offices. She had been a fan once, but now she didn't feel as though they were open at all. The openness was an illusion. The walls were there and they had eyes.

Over the course of only a weekend, she had forgotten how to fit in.

Get a grip, she told herself, and instantly she was blushing, thinking of him again, imagining what she might have done if she hadn't sent him packing on Saturday night, imagining herself reaching down between his legs and looking him in the eye, getting a good grip.

“Judy!”

It was Barry, a big guy whose head was inversely-proportionate to the size of his neat, designer glasses. In the corporate hierarchy, she was answerable directly to him, which was great, because he was generally a nice guy and his management style involved letting her get on with her job without interfering. As long as she put the figures in and made orders on time, he had no reason to talk to her.

Today, however, Judy sensed that something was wrong. The fact that he was interrupting her at her desk, raising his voice, in the middle of the morning, just after his meeting, didn't bode well.

“I've noticed that you haven't taken any holiday this year,” he began.

“That's right,” she said.

“And that you haven't booked any either.”

“Haven't I?” she said innocently.

“No.”

“I guess I don't have any plans,” she said. “I hadn't thought about it.”

“I'd like you think about it,” he said. “I'd like you to put in for some holiday as soon as possible.”

“Well, it will be difficult now, because it's already booked up and I can't possibly leave when we're on a skeleton staff in mid-summer.”

“You can,” Barry told her.

“I might be able to take a few days in December,” she suggested. “Or, you could pay me instead of making me take holiday, like last year, and the year before that.”

“Not this time,” Barry said. “I'd like you to take some leave.”

Judy swivelled her chair so that her entire body was directed towards him.

“Are you telling me or asking me?” she said.

“I'm asking you, as your friend,” he said, which was the first time he'd referred to himself as such. It surprised her. “But if you need more encouragement, I'll tell you as your boss.”

“You can't make me do that,” she said.

“And you can't hand in figures like this,” he said, dumping a folder on her table, “and expect me to think that your mind's on the job.”

She picked up the folder and flicked through the pages. When her face remained blank, Barry pointed out boxes, rows and columns that were also blank or otherwise incorrect. There were entire reports that she had marked as complete, but had not been filled in.

She swallowed hard and glanced at her screen. Her email inbox was overflowing with unopened correspondence. Her hand snaked across the desk towards the mouse, aiming to left click on the minimise button.

“Don't bother,” Barry said. “I know you've developed a backlog. If you'd read your emails we'd have had this discussion in my office, at ten am, yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. You're normally on top of all this, so I don't think it will last, but I've noticed...” he gestured to the meeting room “...we've noticed that you seem to have lost your spark. You're off your game at the moment.”

“It's been one week,” Judy said, exasperated.

“I think there's been something wrong for more than a week,” he said and he squatted beside her, his voice low. “You can fool yourself, but you can't fool me. I want you to be happy. I want you to take a break. Then I want the old Judy back.”

The old Judy is dead,
she thought,
she's not coming back. The old Judy took the overhead line from Walthamstow to Liverpool Street every weekday morning. Dead. She read the free newspapers, because they were free. Dead. She bought a cappuccino with chocolate but no sugar during the walk to work, usually two mornings a week, but never more than three times. Dead. Dead. Dead. The new Judy wants to live, she just doesn't know how yet, and you're not helping.

“Look,” Barry said, sliding her yet more papers.

Judy skimmed the documents.

“Memos,” she said, failing to see the significance. “I wrote them myself.”

“Who is this one addressed to?” Barry asked.

“Giles Patterson,” she said, from memory.

“Look at it,” said Barry, losing patience.

She looked again and saw what she had typed instead of Giles Patterson.

“As far as I'm aware,” Barry said, “there is no Mark Nightingale working for this company or any other company with which we're involved.”

“Correct,” admitted Judy.

“The name Mark also appears here.” Another document. “And here.” Barry sighed. “And here. And here it just says Nightingale.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“I spoke to Peter earlier in the week...”

Uh-oh.

“...and he said in passing that he noticed you weren't your old self either.”

I bet,
Judy thought, and she buried her face in her hands. She wondered how much Peter had told Barry about their last evening together and how she had failed tragically to transform their friendship into intimacy. She wondered how much of that Barry had already shared with the rest of the office.

She should have known better than to sleep with an ex-colleague. It was always going to get back here at some point. It wouldn't have been so bad if she's actually got somewhere with him. As it was, the news that Peter had turned down a relationship, not once but twice, would be on every floor of the office. The warehouse lads were not beyond writing limericks on toilet walls.

She was steeling herself for the revelation of this imaginary poem, seeking words that rhymed with ‘Judy’ and ‘dumped’, when Barry said:

“I don't know who this Mark is and it's no business of mine...”

“No, it's not.”

“...but when it gets in the way of your work, it does concern me.”

She was about to say something that she might regret.

The old Judy would have smiled now and told him that he was absolutely right.

The new Judy, whoever she was, was about to say the first thing to come into her head. The new Judy terrified her.

“If I'd written the name Peter instead of Mark,” she said, “you wouldn't have minded. You'd have thought it was sweet. I know that you're a little bit in love with Peter and that you want to protect him from getting hurt. It's admirable. Rest assured that I care about him a great deal too and I wasn't toying with his emotions. Not that it's any business of yours.”

Barry's mouth hung open, reminding her of something she had once seen in a travelling circus. There, squirting water from a pistol into the open mouth won you a prize. Here, it would get you the sack.

She didn't feel afraid of losing her job, though.

She felt impervious.

Perhaps,
she thought,
this is what righteous anger feels like.

Barry composed himself, barely.

“I'm not in love with Peter,” he said, reddening. “I'm merely looking out for the interests of our team and the company.”

“What do you want me to do, Barry?”

“I want you to put in for holiday by the end of the week and I want you to take it.”

“We'll see about that.”

“And I want you to go home. Now. Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.”

“I can't go home,” Judy laughed. “It's not even lunchtime.”

“We'll get by without you,” Barry said.

She didn't like the way he said that.

She looked around her cubicle and a few pairs of eyes averted themselves from hers.

“Fine,” she said. “I'll go.”

She swept her papers up into a pile and opened up her bag to dump them inside.

“Leave them,” Barry said.

“These orders need verifying,” she said, indignant.

“The only orders you need to concern yourself with our mine. Go.”

She was about to protest, when a sadness came over his face and he practically pleaded with her:

“Enjoy it,” he said.

She closed her bag. Without the folders and half a ream of paper from the archive files, it felt pointless to carry it home.

“I might leave this here,” she said.