In a whirl of motion, he shakes her hand, leans down and squeezes my shoulder issuing a whispered instruction to take care of Ms Jansen well. As the pair leave, I try not to notice her lingering look as the door closes behind them, the room breaking out in chatter like a classroom abandoned by its teacher.
She looked confused, didn’t she?
Meanwhile, Heather is refusing to bring her gaze my way.
Well, fuck! I knew I hated Mondays.
31
Heather
The meeting endsand I leave Archer with his crowd of sycophants and gossip mongers, otherwise known as well-wishers. Back slappers. Bum lickers. Yes, it’s a feather in his cap that he’s been given this project to run, and we should perhaps all be pleased for him because NV is a company E11even has been chasing for quite some time. And yet, I find myself slipping out of the door feeling a little hurt.
Maybe Fenna Jensen is the reason he didn’t call me while he was in Amsterdam. His silly cake text is looking less and less cute by the minute. But do I have the right to feel as wounded as I do? Not really. Not with how we left things back then. But that’s the thing about feelings, you don’t really get a choice whether you want them or not.
But I’m not only hurt. I’m annoyed. We’ve spent so much time together over the last few weeks and he didn’t think to mention anything about this to me? I fail to see how he wouldn’t have noticed her. Not the way she was looking at him.
We’re supposed to be in a relationship, aren’t we?
Not the real thing,my mind supplies.Maybe you’re the stand in, not him.
I head in the direction of my office, but then realise he’ll probably head straight there, too. I’m not ready to speak to him yet. I’m not calm enough to get my point across without shouting. Or crying. Maybe both. I’m not quite ready to articulate my hurt.
I bypass the igloo-like meeting pods and the games space, which is unusually empty, wishing I’d stopped long enough to grab my cupcake before stomping my way into the first of the designated thinking spaces. These rooms are so rarely used for anything other than people hiding from work and upper management, but it seems they’re all at their desks now. Which is just as well as I drop to the seat in the little auditorium space that looks like it was made for kindergarteners.Primary colours and fake grass on the semi-circle of seating. At least they’re full-sized, I suppose.This room is for joint thinkers. For practising pitches. For sharing ideas. It’s safe to say no one ever comes in here.
Why didn’t he tell me he was about to be promoted?
And what was with Frankie Lambeth’s fatherly squeeze on his shoulder? Was it a case of; look after her, boy. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. I know it sounds ridiculous. I know it sounds far-fetched, but so does getting to run a project this size considering he’s worked for E11even for under six months.
From the corner of my eye I notice the pile of company magazines next to me. And wouldn’t you know, Archer’s smiling face is staring out. Annoyed by his presence even in this form, I push at the pile though only succeed in increasing the numbers of his smiles.
‘Urgh.’ But then I notice it looks like someone else has suffered annoyance at the sight of him too, taking a black biro to his face. And, oh, look. They’ve even left a pen. How considerate.
I enlarge the specs he’s wearing from regular Archer size to Elton John circa 1970 proportions. Then I deepen his freckles and turn them to craters. I add a blackened tooth, give him a buccaneer style nasty scar, complete with sutures. Then I wish I’d left the specs in favour of an eyepatch.
‘Defiling me, Heather?’ I jump at the sound of his voice, something dark and swift blooming inside of me.
‘I’m just making the outsides match the insides.’
‘For the record,’ he says, coming to stand next to me—no, coming to loom over me. He slides his hands in his pockets, a tiny but condescending smile playing on his face. ‘I don’t think spectacles and a black front tooth detract from my desirability. Not even for you.’
‘You’re a prick,’ I retort, throwing the magazine a little farther away. ‘And I didn’t do that.’
‘Hmm. Except you’re still holding the pen.’ He pulls the magazine back to its original place, flipping it over with his thumb and forefinger as though he has a deep-seated need to examine it. But I’m not silly, I know he’s just trying to crowd me in.
‘I do like the addition of those devilish horns.’
‘I wish I could claim responsibility for those, but I can’t.’
‘Really?’ he drawls.
‘I suppose this must mean you’re torturing someone in the building. Someone other than me.’
‘You know I save all my good moves for you.’
He drops the magazine, pressing his palm flat to the cover, the inside of his wrist almost brushing my thigh with the sort of measured carelessness that has me immediately annoyed. He’s always so supremely confident; does anything ever not go his way?
‘What do you want, Archer?’
