This is a Love Story (20 page)

redundancies had been made, and that our focus should be entirely on our own workloads. What happened to that?

‘Oh, OK, great,’ I said, still confused. I looked through the doorway and up to Ant’s office. He pushed himself back in his chair

and gave me a smarmy smile. Gross . . .

‘So you’re an artist here, right?’ she asked nervously. What else would a scruffy-looking guy in his mid to late twenties in urgent

need of a shave be?

‘Yes, spot on. What exactly will you be doing during your week here, Chloe?’ I enquired, leaning back against my desk and

noticing a dirty mark on my immaculate Onitsuka Tigers. Damn. I’d had these for eight months and managed to keep them scuff-

free.

‘Well, I’m here to help everyone, really. I’m hoping to get some really good experience here to help me get a job, but it’s tough to

break into the market now. I’ll probably be making lots of tea, too.’ She smiled.

At least she was realistic. ‘So what do you do normally?’ I asked.

‘I’m signed up to an agency at the moment and they’re looking for something permanent in the publishing world. I’ve just finished

a master’s degree at UCL. It’s been pretty tough, really,’ she admitted, playing with some old-looking gold bangles on her left wrist.

‘Well, I wish you the best of luck, Chloe, and it’s lovely to meet you,’ I said, trying to push some positivity her way. I could

remember the start of my career, and how soul-destroying it had been at times. Scrunched-up letters from various different failed

applications, and the bitter taste of rejection with my breakfast. Humiliating interviews with pompous, overconfident young

whippersnappers, hired because they were the director’s relative.

‘Have you met the gang yet?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, I’ve met most of them – just need to meet Sienna, I think it is . . . She works in editorial, I believe? She isn’t in yet, I think

she’s at an interview or something.’

‘Ah yes, Sienna,’ I said knowingly. I was desperately trying not to give away the fact that I was trying to get over her, having

loved her unconditionally for nearly two years.

I leaned in to speak to Chloe; she smelled of warm spices and I considered for a moment how much I loved women and their

exotic scents and wacky jewellery, and how you can almost remember someone like they’re right next to you when you smell a

familiar fragrance on the train . . .

‘Sienna will take good care of you. That’s her desk over there.’ I turned Chloe round and pointed towards the empty workstation.

It was covered with photographs of smiling young girls in their early twenties in various glamorous nightclubs and bars, Sienna

usually wedged in the middle, wearing some fantastic ensemble she had just thrown on.

I felt a brief wave of sadness again. It was like I had lost something when I made my decision to walk away. In many respects, I

was grieving for the loss of hope. Hope that one day we could be together. I had spent most of the weekend vegetating in my house

and watching old films with a packet of Marlboro Lights and a crate of beer for company.

‘Oh, great – well I can’t wait to meet her. Speak soon,’ Chloe said before sashaying out of my office like a cat. She definitely

wiggled her bottom a bit. Definitely on purpose, too. Hmm . . .

Finally, something new and exciting in the office. Even if it was only for a week. It was perfect timing, and the fact that she was

leaving soon was also great news. That meant I might actually be able to ask her out on a date, have some fun, whatever. She was

on work experience so it wouldn’t contravene my ‘no dating colleagues’ rule, because in a week, she wouldn’t be one any more.

Ha.

A small orange bar flashed on the bottom right-hand side of my screen. It was an instant message from Anthony.

‘WHAT DO YOU RECKON?’

Capital letters. The mark of a madman.

I played dumb. Again. ‘About what?’ I replied.

‘THE WORKIE, DIPSHIT.’

How rude. ‘Yes, she seems nice. I didn’t think we were doing work experience any more. Has the policy changed?’

I saw him lean back in his chair and scratch the back of his head. ‘WE WEREN’T. SHE CAME IN THE OTHER WEEK,

TOLD RECEPTION SHE HAD A MEETING WITH ME SO I CAME DOWNSTAIRS AND SPOKE TO HER. SHE

MANAGED TO PERSUADE ME. YOU CAN’T BEAT DETERMINATION LIKE THAT, PLUS SHE’S HOT, NICK. OPEN

YOUR EYES AND ENJOY THE SCENERY.’

Jesus, this was so unprofessional. I deleted the conversation trail and opened a new window. I hated office sleaze and sexist banter

and wanted no part of it.

I tried to get back to drawing, but it was a difficult and highly unproductive couple of hours. My mind was cluttered. Where was

Sienna? It was reaching midday and she still hadn’t arrived at her desk. In fact, I hadn’t heard from her all weekend and we’d had

that awkward situation on Thursday night. I hoped her dad was OK and that nothing had happened.

We spoke at work every day, of course, but I made a firm resolution now. I had to keep some distance. Things were going to

change. I was back in the game – I needed to start dating again, find something new to distract me, eat better, exercise more.

Change. Maybe I could finally learn how to play the guitar, or join that local football team I’d been thinking about for so long . . .

I looked up and spotted Chloe staring at me through the glass. She quickly turned away when she saw me. That was when it

struck me that she was actually quite sexy, and thoughts of Sienna trickled from my mind. But I was keen not to look like the office

perv. I drew my blinds and shut the door. Hopefully everyone would just think that I was creating something so amazing it required

total silence and solitude to do it. The reality of the situation was that I was drawing circles all over the screen, filling them with

random colours, then deleting them, over and over again.

I couldn’t help but think about Sienna and where she could be. Eventually I lowered my head to the surface of the desk and tried

to collect myself. Why wasn’t she here? What if something had happened? What if she’d been on a night out and got abducted and

somehow no one had noticed yet? What if she’d fallen wildly in love over the weekend with some American guy and jetted off to

Los Angeles without telling anyone? Now come on, Nick . . .

There was a quiet knock at the door. It wasn’t Sienna because she had a specific knock and I could tell it from a mile off.

‘Come in,’ I said sadly, suddenly realising how miserable I must sound. I quickly pulled at my T-shirt to straighten myself out and

put on a brave face.

The blonde bed hair was filling my doorway once more. ‘Sorry, Nick, it’s me again. Ant has given me a brief for you already,

hope that’s OK . . .’ she trailed off quietly.

‘Yes, of course, I should probably do some work, shouldn’t I?’ I chuckled, quickly deleting the window of scrawl I had been

creating in my state of paranoia. I think she may have seen it, though. ‘Take a pew.’ I patted my hand on the empty seat next to me.

‘Oh, OK,’ she said, blushing slightly as she started to pull an A4 sheet from a brown envelope.

I put my left elbow on the desk and twisted my body towards hers. She had lovely dimples when she smiled. My eye suddenly

caught a sexy-looking bra strap poking out from the top of her dress. It was black lace with what looked like a flash of blue silk.

Wow.

‘So, I was on the phone to the company – it’s an outdoor sports group and they’re creating extreme assault courses in treetops all

over the country.’

She ran a pale pink fingernail down the page. I wondered how it would feel to have it running down my back. God, Nick, stop it.

‘Tom’s going to try it out and write about it for WeekEnd magazine, so we need some page design and illustrations to go with the

photos,’ she continued. ‘Ant wants you to decide the format. We need it by Wednesday 5 p.m. at the latest. Um, I think that’s about

it, really . . .’

She turned to look at me and a tingle ran down my back. I squeaked like a teenage boy when I tried to speak. Shit. How

embarrassing. She looked down at her lap and smiled.

I finally managed to get the words out. ‘OK, great, thanks for that. I’ll let you know if there are any problems so you can relay

them.’ She was fit. Definitely.

‘Fab. Speak to you later.’ She sashayed out of the office again and gently shut the door behind her.

My mind went into overdrive. Sex with Chloe in my office. Door locked, blinds closed. Pushing everything from my desk and

onto the floor movie style, including my £3,000 Mac, and lifting her onto it. Yum.

Oh dear God. I was just as bad as the rest of them. Another orange bar flashed at the bottom of my screen. It was Tom. He had

clearly not been able to fix his keyboard after my improvement works this morning.

Y+U F*NCY HER, RIGHT? BEC*USE IF Y+U D+N’T YOU *RE DEFINITELY G*Y.

‘Sod off,’ I wrote.

Sienna

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

T.

O.

C.

K.

I couldn’t wait for the clock to strike five today. I had only been in the office a few hours because of a morning interview in town,

but the day had still gone very slowly. I was buzzing for the start of my new and improved life, which would involve me being a

super sexy gym bunny.

Yup. I was totally ready. Eyewateringly expensive gym membership? Check.

Energy bars? Check. Fluffy miniature towel? Check. Great-fitting gym kit (yes, it is possible)? Check.

On Sunday I’d been to a quiet corner of Covent Garden and discovered a beautifully mysterious dancewear shop. I was able to

find some kit that was relatively stylish, didn’t cling to my body like shrink-wrap, and didn’t give me camel-toe. It was almost a

miracle.

But it didn’t happen without a struggle. The woman in the shop was scary; in fact, scrap that, she was terrifying. An ex-

professional ballet dancer – you could tell the second you looked at her, with her wiry, yet graceful frame and pursed lips.

‘Hello, darling,’ she purred, her jazz shoes sweeping across the wooden floorboards as she swayed from side to side.

Uh oh. ‘Oh, hiya. Yeah, I was hoping—’

‘STOP,’ she interrupted me loudly, a tobacco-scented finger pushed hard against my mouth.

What the hell? I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked terrified. How could I get out of here? I looked left and right,

left and right, but she had me trapped between a tall mirror and an exceptionally scratchy tutu. I was half expecting to see the foot of

a cameraman poking out from one of the changing-room curtains before he jumped out and shouted, ‘Candid camera!’

‘Are you married?’ she asked, a sharp black eyebrow pointing towards the ceiling. Her lips, which had started to resemble a cat’s

bottom, were pursed together to create an effect you only usually see in female Disney villains.

‘Er, no, but I don’t know what this has got to do with—’

Again I was suddenly cut short. ‘Why?’ the sharp voice demanded.

‘Excuse me? Why what?’ I responded, starting to get a little defensive now. I only came out for bloody gym kit, not a cross-

examination on my romantic failings.

‘Why on earth aren’t you married? You’re beautiful,’ she said angrily, shifting her weight onto her left leg as she looked me up

and down.

I blushed. I was angry, flattered and embarrassed all at the same time. And she, I was sure, was totally nuts.

‘Look at you,’ she said, seeming on the verge of fury. She spun the full-length mirror round, confronting me with my own

terrified reflection. It was a bit like Trinny and Susannah, but even more rude and humiliating. At least she hadn’t started

manhandling my tits yet. Dear God, there was no one else in the shop. She might kill me and sell me to the pub round the corner as

cheap meat. But there I was, a frightened thing caught in the headlights of this strange woman’s tirade.

Here were the vital stats. Sienna Walker, 5 foot 7 inches tall, nine and a half stone, long dark hair, black and pink hi-top trainers

and a nice, thick-knit cardigan over boy-fit jeans. A fairly regular, run-of-the-mill girl in her early twenties in off-duty London trends.

So what?

‘You want to know why you aren’t married?’ she said, leaning close to my face now. The odour of stale Chanel No. 5

bombarded my nostrils. Yuk.

‘Because I’m young, busy and not that bothered?’ I responded with venom. I had clearly found one of these old-school women

who felt that life was supposed to begin and end with washing your husband’s dirty Y-fronts with a bar of whale fat and a broken

mangle. I don’t think so, missy.

‘No, of course not,’ she shrieked now, flapping her right hand through the dusty air and narrowly missing my nose with a sharp,

red fingernail. This was verging on assault, surely?

She walked behind me and I noticed her grey wispy hair was piled into a bun that looked as if it was about to fall off her head. A

powder puff, if you will. I should have just stormed out of the shop but I was curious; maybe even a glutton for punishment. What

was she getting at?

‘It’s all because of this,’ she uttered in disgust, pulling at the loose material of my jeans and yanking one of the arms of my

cardigan, leaving it hanging limply from my wrist.

Then she walked to my left-hand side. ‘And this,’ she continued, lifting a strand of my unkempt hair into the air and dropping it as

if it was a rat’s tail.

Well, she had a point. I was looking pretty low-maintenance today, but still . . .