He grabs a baguette and joins me in the peak lunchtime queue. ‘You’re funny. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before. Which is your fault, by the way.’
‘My fault?’ I turn my head over my shoulder, returning his slightly smug expression with one of confusion.
‘You don’t allow people to see you.’ Not the aloof thing again. ‘You’re like . . . you’re like the orchids in reception. You’ve seen them, right? In the bowl next to the desk?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen them. I’m just not sure what your point is.’ At the counter now, I pay for my lunch before moving aside to wait for him. And as strange as it feels, my desire to know what he’s talking about outweighs my self-consciousness. What can he mean by it? I’ve always found orchids kind of strange looking—give me pretty daisies or tulips any day of the week. Orchids are high maintenance and, in my experience, not very sweet smelling.Annndif he says either of these things to me, he’d better be prepared to wear my salad back to the office this afternoon.
I move to the doorway when the only other orchid-centric fact comes back to me, a throwback to studyingThe Great Gatsbyfor an English lit exam. Wasn’t there some sort of symbolism in Gatsby’s love interest, Daisy Buchanan, being likened to an orchid? From memory, I think it had something to do with her cowardice. Again, that would be salad-wearing talk.
‘Thanks for waiting.’ Archer’s smile is a fleeting thing, his gaze sliding from mine to the street beyond as we make our way outside.
Did I wait, or did I just zone out while pondering?
‘Want to go somewhere and eat this?’ He holds up his baguette; posh cheese and pickle, for the record. It makes me wonder if he’s a vegetarian, which is another ridiculous thought because what would it matter if he is? A marriage, or friendship, made in heaven we are not. ‘Are you up for it?’
‘What?’ I ask a little sharply when he waves his baguette in front of me.Not a euphemism, by the way.‘Oh, I was just going to head back to my desk.’ Like always.
He cocks one very eloquent eyebrow. ‘On a beautiful day like this?’
‘But it’s freezing.’ I rub my hand up and down my upper arm to back up my reply. It isn’t really that cold, though it is a brisk, chilly day. March has yet to bless London with anything near spring weather, and I’m still wearing my winter coat, though thankfully it’s no longer woolly hat and gloves weather. I even still have the mittens Daisy knit for me stashed in my deep coat pockets.
‘C’mon,’ he cajoles. ‘Get a little fresh air in your lungs.’ He inhales deeply, his broad chest expanding under a navy pea coat just as an ancient Transit van splutters past, emitting a billow of exhaust fumes.
‘Fresh air, was it?’ I ask as Archer begins to cough. ‘Around here?’
‘I know somewhere. Trust me?’
‘Not particularly.’ My nose scrunches, and I wonder why he’s looking at me like he is, as well as what that look can mean. He looks weirdly content. ‘And definitely not until you explain this orchid thing.’
‘It’s all good, I promise. I’ll tell you as we walk.’
So we do, Archer on the outer side of the pavement like my dad always does for my mum. Someone raised him well, despite his tomcat ways.As we pass the glass front of E11even, I’m pleased not to see anyone heading out the door or in our direction, though I will admit to a little spike of pleasure at seeing our reflections in the glass; a spike of pleasure, the roots of which must be tied to last night’s dream.
We walk in silence for a minute or two, cars trundling along Aldersgate Street as couriers and office staff spill from the neoclassical buildings. The dome of St Paul’s is behind us, and the sky above a hazy kind of blue. A row of red cycles for hire, or Boris Bikes as they’re known, line the kerb. A banker-looking type hails a black cab, a red double-decker bus stops at a zebra crossing to let pedestrians by, the rhythms of the city unchanging day by day. Yet here I am, taking a stroll with the office heartthrob. I wonder what my subconscious makes of that.
‘So, this orchid.’ Archer’s voice breaks my reverie, his gaze sliding sideways to mine. ‘It is a compliment, I promise.’
‘I can’t wait to hear you liken me to a weird-looking plant with a positive slant.’ My answer sounds a little saucy, and I appear to have a little pep in my step right now, though it might be anxiety.
‘Weird? I thought they were supposed to be considered beautiful?’
I ignore the strange little leap my heart does, my answer in no way reflecting that muscle’s mischief. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And personally, I think orchids are weird.’
‘Well, I think they’re beautiful.’ And by that, he thinks I’m beautiful, too? ‘They’re sophisticated. Graceful. There’s something exotic about them. Don’t you think?’
I think ginger is anything but exotic. And as for sophisticated and graceful, he can’t be thinking of me. I begin to question if he did compare me to an orchid back in Pret, but he did, didn’t he?
‘Would you prefer rare?’
‘It’s closer but mutant might be nearer the mark.’
‘You can’t accept exotic, but mutant is okay?’ His feet scuff the pavement as he comes to a sudden halt, and the look he gives me makes me stare down at my sensible Mary Janes.
‘It’s true.’ Though arguing, I try not to sound quarrelsome. ‘The redheaded gene is a mutation that both parents need to carry. I’m also pretty sure ginger isn’t synonymous with any kind of exoticism. Besides, the term is marginalising. Demeaning even.’
Mutant?Dear God, please strike me mute for a little while before I convince the pretty man I have a face only a Trekkie could love.
But still, I’m not sure that I have the kind of looks that could be described as exotic, but if I had, I’m pretty sure I still wouldn’t appreciate being described that way. Just as I don’t particularly like hearing how un-exotic I am.
